You're 26, You Should Probably Talk More About Literature Than Fucking in Brooklyn

Sometimes you're 26 and you have roommates. That's totally fine.

Sometimes you're 26 and you actually live in the same room with some one. No door. All tits.
That's totally fine, too.

However, the adjustments in regards to trying to get laid in your own bed without any uninvolved parties hearing you are PRETTY FUCKING TOUGH.

Did I mention we don't exactly have a door?
I looked down at my Super Mario bedsheets and whispered "goodbye bed-sex".

It's time to use OTHER people's apartments, which can be weird. You always accidentally find out something personal about them and it's supposed to make you like them more, but it doesn't.
It fucking doesn't.


To figure out the fucking situation, I've created guidelines on the type of people I should probably avoid.

1. People who live at home. I will not fuck you twenty feet from where your sweet old grandma eats her shitty cat food or whatever it is your weird family does.

2. Have roommates that will probably be up and want to make small talk.
They will also probably hear you fuck.
So, no.

3. People who share a  room with some one and so the window of opportunity to get laid is like from 715pm-805pm every other week. Don't fuck me, it's pointless.

4. Anyone who lives outside of Brooklyn. Fuck you, you're too far. 


Did you know that Ford originally created the first automobile solely to fuck in, because he had three roommates that were always fucking home and he needed a place to fuck his girlfriend? Oh, you didn't know? Yeah, cars are great for that sorta thing. Find a tree lined block, park in between cars, and make both your parents ashamed of your poor life choices. It's been pretty awesome, though.

Note: My roommates are actually really awesome gals and I love 'em to death.

This Post Kinda Makes Me Sound Like a Piece of Shit

This is something I've been thinking about. A lot. Because breaking down the fourth wall means addressing really awful things. Like the pre-sex-shower process.

If you're getting laid on a regular basis (or have in the past - I'm not judging, shit happens) then you know exactly what the pre-sex-shower step by step system is. There's like 4 steps:

1. Wash yo hair.
You want the other person to think your hair has always smelled like fresh coconuts being cracked open by Tom Hank's character in Cast Away. Why does your hair smell so tropically good?
Because you're perfect, that's why.

2. Shave EVERYTHING.
Shut up, you do. You fucking shave that shit like you never hit puberty.

3. Cover that shaved shit in super awesome smelling body lotion.
Oh, did I mention this is from a gal's point of view? I'll address the four arduous and painstakingly thought out steps for a dude in a short sec.
But, seriously, you rub lavender body lotion over your newly mowed legs like that shit's going out of style.
And then when fellas tell you you smell super nice, you say things like "Oh, I just like floral scents' and 'I think that's just my natural scent' and then you take a shot gun and blow your fucking jaw off because in reality you're a lying sack of shit.

4. Realize how many times you've done the pre-sex-shower procedure and have ended up disappointed, alone, and sprouting red bumps that weren't even fucking worth it. It's in that moment that you swear you'll never be so foolish again.

Until two weeks later when you're doing the same 'ol routine again.

Oh, and this is what I assume guys do before getting laid.

1. Wake up and maybe brush your teeth.
2. Take a shower at one in the afternoon while drinking a Miller High Life.
3. Show up half drunk and stoned, but smelling like what girls assume Justin Timberlake smells like.
4. Have sex with a gal who's totally clean shaved, smells like the sweetest garden in Belgium, and go home and eat a sandwich.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Put the Fucking Lemons Down and Go Drink at the Bar

Last night's forecast called for a shitstorm, and it delivered.
Imagine how odd it was hearing that from News 12.

I turned on my TV and some guy in a suit with a fro was like "Hey, Zoey, so yeah. It's gonna be pretty fucking awful for the next couple of days. I hope you enjoy the fucking sun in your face reminding you that everyone else is happy and you're a bag of dicks. Oh, but first, it's gonna rain shit."

He's standing in front of a large picture of me, and points to an amebic cloud over my right shoulder, just above the chip. "This here, this is a shitstorm brewing. It's gonna start around twelve thirty am and keep going through your work day until Saturday morning, where you'll just get some drops of shit."

He moves to the next screen. "Let's take a look at the week for you." There's seven straight days of me with headphones listening to Elliott Smith while flipping off puppies and babies. "Oh, fuck, girl. What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks me, as he desolves.

That story wasn't real. I don't have cable.

 I'm finally working with cheese again.

I worked so much overtime the past few weeks that I can finally empathize with the Dominican and Mexican porters at my job. I am one of them, and we'll initiate my belonging with a *insert incredibly racist stereotype involving a pinata, quincinera, or a welcome-home-from-jail* joke. Oh, I just did.

Overtime has currently put me at the not-so-fucking-poor benchmark most 20 somethings in non-degree fields strive for. Thanks to time and a half, and a company willing to make sure I get every last penny, I have money in my pocket.
Which is good, cause I don't have clothes that fit me in my closet, food sitting in my fridge, or anything above the CVS brand of toiletries in my bathroom.

I'd buy this, but it's really expensive. Not even time-and-a-half pay can justify the purchase.

Me buying a 14 dollar tin can of olive oil because it has my name (not even spelled the same way) on my budget would honestly mean I'd no longer be able to rant about how people on welfare have nice shoes and phones, and not be a total hypocrite.And, from the bottom of my heart, I truly love to talk mad shit about those people. Oh, pardon me as I interrupt your never ending quest to make sure your lineage is stuck in poverty with the poor life choices you consistently make. Are those the new Jordans?

I guess the moral is when life gives me lemons, I pour them in my wounds and drink a lot of low shelf whiskey with a bunch of other people who are making lemonade.

Con-Con-Con Ed

I learned some 'real life math' yesterday.

Luke warm microwaved water + ice cold bath water on day three of no hot water = Con Edison is a dick and I kind of hate everything right now.

THAT'S the type of math I would've tried to understand in high school if given the opportunity. I wouldn't have had to take the effin' regents exam twice.

"Mary woke up Sunday to find she no longer had hot water. She also noticed, sad as fuck, that the pilot light on her stove wouldn't light.
So, coffee was out of the question.
For smelly Mary.
Calculate the accurate ratio between how much Mary reflects on every shitty life decision that's led her to this point in time, and Con Edisons actual admission of guilt for the lack of gas."

Side note: I am not smelly Mary right now. I've braved the frigid bath waters of Nova Scotia in my angry little tub to feel fresher than the bitch on those Herbal Essence commercials. I'm good, thanks.

Con Edison claims their people will contact our people to contact their people about people contacts and have everything fixed by tomorrow.
I hold my breath not, for the people at Con Edison make the people at Time Warner look like my dad selflessly buying groceries for my apartment.

Hey, fuck you, stop dating people. Especially if you're broke.

This morning I found myself singing 'I've Grown Accustomed to your Face' to the two day old sandwich I was eating. I've been eating a lot of old food lately that my job has been so kind to not throw in the trash in front of my face, and I've started smoking cigarettes.


Let's talk for a moment about being broke and single at the same time. Being broke and single and you're not the worst looking gal in the room. Sometimes, I find it absolutely raining dick on me.

Like, "whoa, fellas, one douche-y (or clever douche-y, if you're drinking in Williamsburg) pick up line at a time.
Yes, you can buy me a drink.
No, I don't think I have to make eye contact with you for the rest of the night.
...Oh, my friend's here..."

It could be pouring.

Or, it could be dry and sad and reminiscent of that Decemberists song about being left in a desert to die.

Either way, I have no fucking money to do anything 'romantic', 'date-ish' or 'sober'. There's a great bar down the block from me that has $5 shot + beer and the bartenders there aren't stuck up assfucks (you just thought of THAT bartender that you effin' hate, didn't you?). I go there, and if I like you, I take you with me. We get drunk, I'm awkward about pretty much all of it, and we part ways.

If I had money, maybe we'd go somewhere nice. Maybe we'd eat sushi or whatever the fuck it is people who don't drink whiskey from the bottle do. Have nice things, y'know?

But I'm poor, amongst other things, and it prevents me being fooled into thinking that I should create a front where I have any amount of class that could fill a cup. So it's $5 shot + beer, and the bartenders know my name and my drink and, yes, there's pinball there.

Oh, I was gonna attempt to gather some sort of advice about how to date when you're broke as fuck.

Okay, here it is.

Broke or not, don't fucking date people.
Are you fucking stupid?
Have you seriously never dated anyone?
Cause if you had, you'd know what a fucking shit show it is.
Shut up. It is.
Your optimism can eat my asshole, dude.
Stick with being poor. One shitty experience at a time, okay?
So, yeah.

Cinco De Mayo

Cinco De Mayo is the Mexican -- shut the fuck up.
You have no idea what the fuck it's about.

Did you even know it involved the French? Hm?
It did. And it doesn't fucking matter.
Cinco De Mayo is the year's best happy hour day.

"Are you furreal, broke-as-fuck-and-just-as-pathetic gal?"
I am. Restaurants bank on this shit.

If you're broke, this is the holy grail of Monday night drinking.

And really, just because you're poor doesn't mean you should look and act like a fucking douche bag because you think it's kitschy/ironic/are actually into it. If I see anyone Party City-ed out in a fucking sombrero, I will deck them. This also goes for the assholes who play the accordions on the trains as if a screeching accordion is a fucking money maker. I rather listen to the freestyle Jazz my work plays at 6am, and that shit sounds like a Trumpet being sexually assaulted. Don't get me started on when the Flute comes in. I effin' scarred.

My close friends and I normally pre game even the cheapest of bars.

Sometimes this is a wonderful thing, as the 12 dollars we all put together from our various burdens buys a  handle of something similar to lighter fluid. By the time we reach the bar, we're five-dollar-beer ladies and I go home with actual money left in my pocket.

Sometimes, though, we go shot for shot and I still insist on going to the bar because I'm attracted to ugly men and/or douche bags, and 'this needs to happen' keeps spilling out of my mouth, slurred as fuck. And we go, and it's like its own kind of white girl shit show. I'm trying not to endorse those, let alone participate in 'em.

Also, based on my money and work schedule situations for any given frivolous/1st world country holiday our 'society' (read: twenty somethings) celebrates, I navigate towards the cheapest bar that is relatively close to my apartment. This'll save on stumble-home-drunk time so I can actually get more than a power nap in before work the next day.

Can I note that tomorrow everyone goes out and does what pretty much all of my friends do on a weekly (daily) basis. "Oh, it's Tuesday? Shit, I better start drinking, I got off of work an hour ago."

So, yeah, pretty simple to follow, right? Don't be a piece of shit and make everyone around you sad you weren't on that plane that disappeared in Asia. Just go get a fucking Tecate and a shot of well Tequila and enjoy another Embarrassing Moment In American History.

Oh, and remember, fuck you.

Broke as Fuck

Hello, you. Are you fucking broke in New York City?

Are you in your 20's wondering what the fucking fuck happened?

Shitty life decisions, my friend, and now you're broke.

So am I.

So I'm gonna write about it, truthfully, and probably at times, as offensive as possible. Because that's how it feels to be broke. Like a fucking offense.

So join me, won't you? We can be broke and bitter together.

So we begin with...

FOOD.

Being broke in New York City can sometimes be manageable, if you know where to look. It can also be the worst fucking feeling ever. Smell that pizza? Oh, it smells so good. Fuck you, it’s $3.50 a slice because it has a whole wheat crust and farm-fresh mozzarella. Know what you get? You get Pizza Bro’s where it’s a $1 a slice. And hey, that’s not so bad – at least it’s still NYC pizza. Just, no ambiance, no organic or locally sourced products, and certainly nowhere to sit. Like, I said, fuck you, you get $1 everything nowadays.

No one should have to shop in the 99 cent store, but, fuck you, gotta get toilet paper and eggs from somewhere. And no, you don’t want to know how those chickens were treated before their offspring landed in a schlock store in Bensonhurst. It fits your budget, and you get to live in your apartment one more day.

Why do I start with food first? Because it’s the one thing you can’t ignore. Out of everything, you’re gonna need food every day (duh). Even a roof over your head can vary night to night. But you gotta eat. And in New York City, where it feels like the gap between the rich and the poor makes the Grand Canyon look like a pothole on the LIE, it can actually be easy to get a cheap meal. And, by the way, cheap never, ever means healthy – unless it’s made solely from fruit and veggies you get at that weird Chinese fish market down the block. The fruit sits out in cardboard boxes, wrinkled, but cheap. And if you go further down the block? Cheaper. Why? Fuck you, that’s why. Don’t question why this fruit is so suspiciously cheap. Just eat the damn peach.

Cheap for most broke city dwellers normally means fast food, cart food, or bodega/deli food. As a vegetarian and a ridiculously strict anti-fast food (for a billion reasons) nut job, cheap for me normally means:

A roll with butter from the bodega for $1 for breakfast.

Hummus on a roll (that I pre-pack) for lunch.

Half a brick of cheese and a harsh after session of self-loathing for dinner.

Beer as a late night snack. In a can. A can of beer because bottles are more expensive. Why so serious, bodegas?

Other cheap sources of food include:

Sushi. There are about 100,000 small Japanese restaurants in the four boroughs. (I exclude Staten Island because I’ve never been there and I truly, from the bottom of my heart, truly do not give a shit about it.) Each one of these Japanese restaurants are desperate for your money, almost as desperate as you are for a cheap meal that doesn’t involve white bread. They have huge banners that read “All Sushi 50% Off!” Why is this? It might be because they know how expensive the city is and have found a solid way to offer cheap lunches to the masses and somehow make a profit off of it. Or, most of the fish they use could be cut with wet cat food. You decide.

Sandwiches from Deli-Bodegas. “What is a Deli-Bodega?” your little suburban mouth inquires. Well, kids, a Deli-Bodega is a place where you’re gonna get a sandwich and a soda for less than $5, while also being offered lotto, loosies, quite possibly drugs, and every type of bagged chip known to man – in English and Spanish. Some are nicer than others. Some have bullet proof glass. All of them know you’re broke and call you mamacita because you have that look on your face like you never thought you’d be getting all three meals from the same corner store. More than once a week.

Halal Carts. Don’t ever, ever, underestimate the deliciousness of a Falafel or a Gyro from a guy named Rami in a truck (he’s located at Pacific Street and 4^th Ave in Brooklyn, by the way). For $4 you can make sweet love to a sexy falafel sandwich on the train as straphangers look on in disgust. However, you always run the risk of getting low-quality cart food (duh). Side effects include nausea, not being able to poo, not being able to stop pooing, stomach cramps, and an urge to reflect all the life decisions that lead you to this moment in life.

And no matter what, no matter how broke and pathetic you are, there is always money for beer. Not at a bar, oh no no no, silly goose. From the bodega you can mix and match the beers, but end up with Bud or Coors light because, duh, they’re the cheapest. Why yes, I will get a scratch off with that, and when I win $1 million dollars from it I promise to first pay off my student loans so Moehla and the Government can go fuck themselves hard, and then help every broke 20something New Yorker pay their rent and buy groceries from Whole Foods.

Cause you gotta have goals.