See, I write shit.

I just can’t come to terms with putting my name on my writing. And why should I, if all I’m going to write about is dicks and cocks?

Here, look. I freelanced something. And I used a pen name! I’m such a tramp.

Health Insurance

You may be wondering why I don’t shut down my career and just freelance write.

I, like every other New Yorker with a hysterical Jewish mother, will offer the same explanation:

Health insurance.

Dumpster Diving

Here it is: The bad pick up story of bad pick up stories.

I’ll set the scene. Kelly and I were drinking our heads off last Wednesday, and after we ate the sushi that may or may not have fallen all over the floor of my living room, I walked her to 14th Street.

Goodbye, I said, and waved her on.

I turned back onto Avenue A loop and walked by a man, a normal looking man, head first in a dumpster. I knew he was normal because his bike rested aside the big garbage bin with a clean-looking backpack.

I kept walking, perhaps strutting, in my tank top and sweat pants. I was drunk. I might have swaggered.

“You’re beautiful!” he called, and I kept walking.

“Of course I am,” I yelled as I walked, face straight ahead and picking up speed, “Your head is in the garbage. Everything looks beautiful when your head’s in the fucking garbage.”

This is the truth.

I kept walking and before I knew it he was on his bike and at my side, goading me on with intelligent quips. When I reached my apartment building, I sat down in front of the entry way. He jumped off his bike and unzipped his backpack to reveal a huge camera.

“Let me take your picture — you look stunning with this backlight.”

I said absolutely not, tossed my hair back and posed. After a good 40 or so pictures, he asked for my number. He said he freelanced for the New York Observer, and he would take me out about town.

I said no. The last thing I need is to see yet another man’s garbage.