30 is the New 50: “Old Age” is Killing My Dating Life

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The following is an excerpt from my piece featured on TIME:

“You know,” he says. “It’s tough for people our age.”

It’s 1 a.m. on a Monday, and I am currently on the phone having an argument with a guy I’d been on only four dates with, three of them good. One of them—the last—was less good, given he had gone MIA for the better part of three weeks and I had a sneaking suspicion he had a girlfriend.

We hadn’t slept together, but the kisses had been the type of kisses you walk away from with shaky knees and blind hope. There was something there, and we both knew it, which is why we were attempting to hash things out over the phone at some ungodly hour. Because at our age, we’re adults, and things matter more. The mistakes leave marks.

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How to Not Pick Up Girls: Sidewalk Improv

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There’s a hand corrupting the distance between me and my destination. It’s flown out, unexpectedly, in the middle of a song playing loudly—but not loudly enough—on my headphones. “HEY, HEY, HEY,” I hear, turning in the direction of the voice, thinking it’s going to be—I don’t know—someone I know, given the abrupt physical contact. Instead it’s someone foreign, literally and figuratively. His name is Alek and he is from the Ukraine. I know none of this ahead of time, given that he is a total stranger, but acquire it over the course of the next ten weird minutes on Bedford Avenue.

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Interactive Play Sheds Light on My Life’s Failures

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The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

Times Square blinks menacingly in the distance, that deathly conflagration of badly dressed tourists and burning neon. I’m waiting outside of a recently reopened theater at dusk, standing between a group of women with Chanel bags and floor-length chiffon gowns and a confused family of four, the dad having just procured a piece of wretched-looking Sbarro pizza, bloodied sauce on an albino crust. “Best I ever had!” he exclaims stupidly, breaking up the girls’ anxious conversation about the evening’s future entertainment (“It’s just like Sleep No More, I think, only, I dunno…”) But who am I to judge? I’m the one waiting outside of a boarded-up building, about to see an interactive play by myself.

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“TKO: Relationship Round Two” on Lady Clever

CLAY LISTONThe following is an excerpt from a piece seen on Lady Clever:

They’re standing in the corner of a darkly lit room, two older men in the same v-neck cardigan pulled over a button-up shirt — the financier’s uniform. “Jenny Bahn,” I hear from the taller of the two, the one with the blue eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair. Jeh-nee Bahn. My name delivered in a slight Spanish accent and the winking familiarity of someone you’ve been naked with once. I haven’t seen him since last April, back when we spent the weekend at a sprawling estate somewhere in the Hamptons with a university professor, a celebrity journalist, and a model from Germany. Because of what did or did not transpire in the weeks following, I’m not supposed to like him.

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“That Time I Got Blown Off for Someone Born in the ‘90s”

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

Marco’s brought me over here on the pretense of meeting a dude. “You’ll like Nicholas,” he says. “Right up your alley.” In my “right up your alley,” Marco means slightly Nordic looking, probably hairless, and sporting the type of under-eye bags that you only acquire by ambition-induced stress or a drug problem, likely a combination of both. Marco knows me well enough; my tastes have become disgustingly predictable, self-induced misfortune honed like a craft over the last four years. Give me someone broken and striving and I will give him my heart.

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“I am the Real Hannah Horvath”… and other stories from the GIRLS premiere

BN-AZ777_GirlsH_G_20140107003941The following is an excerpt from my coverage on the GIRLS season 3 premiere as featured on Lady Clever, titled “I am the Real Hannah Horvath.”

“Is it fancy?” I asked my friend last night, trying to figure out what a layperson wears to a premiere. After Googling “GIRLS premiere season 2” as a frame of reference, it had become clear that celebrities wear things like Valentino jumpsuits. Despite evidence of at least partial fanciness, my friend tells me it’s not. Which is good, because I don’t have any Valentino jumpsuits on account of my having to pay for things like groceries and health insurance.

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“A Different Kind of Mile High Club” on Lady Clever

1960s-man-woman-airplane-cabin-stewardess-suits-vintage-photo-aluminum-can-advertisement-sodaThe following is an excerpt from my piece “A Different Kind of Mile High Club” on Lady Clever:

By the grace of the travel gods I have been upgraded to business class and am currently sitting next to a successful art director wearing very expensive sneakers and a pair of well-cut jeans. We bonded when he handed me, without even saying a word, a copy of Interview Magazine. Soon after our dinner accompanied by actual silverware was delivered, we became good chums, toasting the good life with plastic wine glasses filled with cheap Chardonnay. This is the type of stuff that occurs in the forward of an aircraft, unlike what routinely happens to me in coach, which is to be harassed by oafs for pieces of gum and starved out for about six hours. Apparently, getting upgraded isn’t just about the cookies; it’s about the company.

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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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Field Trip: “Bad Drinks with an @TwitterCelebrity” on Lady Clever

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “Bad Drinks with an @TwitterCelebrity” as seen on Lady Clever:

The night is going bad. Appallingly bad. More bad than any bad interaction I have ever had with another human being over the course of my nearly-thirty years. On a scale of one to ten, this is a nuclear meltdown, one that will destroy future generations of plants, animals, people, leaving everything to roam the earth with nine legs and a fistful of eyeballs. No one will be spared. This is, by all accounts, the worst blind-work-date-drink I have ever had.

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Field Trip: Mike Kelley Exhibition at MoMA PS1

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THE FOLLOWING IS A TOTALLY SUBJECTIVE ART REVIEW FROM AN UNPROFESSIONAL ART CRITIC ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN, CURRENTLY SEEN ON THE STYLE CON:

The first thing you notice is the screaming. I’m separating the adhesive from the back of myMoMA PS1 sticker while pretending to read the description for Mike Kelley’s 200-plus oeuvre when I remember something my friend told me about the exhibition last week. Something about how he didn’t know how the docents could stand being in each room for more than 20 minutes at a time. “Screaming,” he said. “So much screaming.”

The recollection comes about twenty minutes and ten dollars too late. Because right now I’m standing alone in the foyer of the museum, a month’s worth of nagging anxiety threatening to push me over the climatic edge of total mental deterioration. I look down the hallway towardsmonitors displaying cartoons of breathing, heaving, shaking glass bottles, each accompanied with its own horrible human exhalation. Screams, moans, the unsettling noises of which we are all capable.

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