Felling the Wood: Tinder Sucks

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The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on Lady Clever:

‘Here’s a story: Girl walks into a bar. Girl sees her friends. Girl walks straight towards her friends because, man, these people are awesome! Girl orders a drink, talks to her friends, gets drunk with her friends. Girl lets the world disappear around her because she is so focused on having a great time. Girl leaves the bar, having not done one scan of the place looking for someone to, I don’t know, even make out with. Girl is single forever because she never took the time to look around the room. Ever.

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“Too Much is Never Enough” on Lady Clever

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “Too Much is Never Enough” on Lady Clever:

Four years ago, a friend of mine was going through relationship troubles with her then-boyfriend. Struggling with the idea of letting go of a person she loved very much, she, like many models tend to do, sought the advice of another half-naked coworker, an older Brazilian girl with whom she had often been trapped in a closet with for long stretches of time, alternating between trying on clothes for strangers and talking about life. Before the break-up that inevitably came, the Brazilian, in her deep, sexy Portuguese accent told my friend, “Girl, do not worry. You have too much sand for his sand truck.”

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“Death to Autofill.” My piece in the latest edition of Cartel VII.

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The following is an excerpt from my essay, “Death to Autofill,” as seen within the e-pages of Cartel VII. (Don’t worry, it gets funny eventually.)

This place has fucked me up.

I was sort of normal when I moved here, just like everyone is sort of normal when they move here. Now I’m deranged, the gnarled, emotionally-mutilated product of a city known for chewing up its inhabitants and spitting them out. And it does. It literally feels like that, at least in that there has been much saliva exchanged over the course of the last four years.

I came to New York when I was newly single, eager as a pound dog to find a new home. But instead of homes, I found outhouses, poles to be tied to, backyards to wander when I wasn’t busy pawing at the glass door looking into someone else’s living room. All of these places – these homes disguised as men – were temporary, invariably horrible in their own special way. But each, for some shard of a moment, some fraction of a second, every single one had been mistaken for something promising. The drug addict producer. The cokehead narcissist. The probably-gay financier. All so full of potential! So smart, so handsome, so saturated with redeemable qualities I’d hoped our future children would inherit!

I so eagerly bought in. I met the boys. I gave out my number, but I didn’t play the game – at least I didn’t play it right.

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