Make-out Marathon

I had consumed three quarters of the Charles Shaw Shiraz she had left at my apartment, the remainder of a good night. I settled into my half of the couch, reserving a spot for my roommate on his half despite his absence. At approximately 9:10PM she sent me a text, inviting me to Williamsburg for drinks with her and her friends. She had taken the red eye back to Bradley, driven to White Plains, taken MetroNorth into Grand Central and met up with her good friend in Brooklyn. I battled the lethargic urge to wallow in my Shiraz drunk, and made it to the other borough. We exchanged pleasantries, caught up, she downed shots and beers, and then fessed up. See, I had always believed her when she maintained her posture as an asexual. I really had no reason not to, but then she shattered that notion with a simple sentence.

Friend: I had a make-out session with a 19 year old for 8 hours on a Lovesac.

S.A.: What the f*ck? [I look at her friend and confirm the fact as she displayed a laugh] No f*cking way. I'm going to call bullsh*t on that. I've known you since I was thirteen... Also nobody makes out for 8 hours. I'm sorry.

Michelle: What's even more ridiculous is that you timed this 8 hour make-out.

S.A.: Yeah, absolutely no possible way. Who does that? I mean when I time myself it's fairly simple. Eight seconds, and she's completely unsatisfied.

Friend: I made out with another boy for 6 hours after twelve hours of drinking and a softball game.

S.A.: Alright, I've heard enough.

The night stumbled on, and bottles of liquor were emptied, but nothing was really notable beyond that exchange.

Pondering Veganism

Politics aside, being a militant vegan is awfully boring. It's like playing z-pong, when the rest of the world is playing PS3. No. Wait. That's a terrible analogy. You spend the majority of your life justifying your lifestyle, sitting on your stoop in Williamsburg inhaling toxic nicotine and tobacco. The alternative is eating at a vegan-friendly restaurant for what seems to be eternity, because the only thing waiting for you outside of the restaurant is that uncomfortable stoop. You're so strict and intent on this political statement that you can't even go to the local pub, like Clem's, to enjoy a pint with your friends and other hiptsers. You are destined to spend the prime of your life on that god damned stoop. Give me jail because I don't think I could handle militant veganism.

King's County

You do not need a passport to visit Williamsburg, a hipster enclave of Brooklyn, but be sure to dress appropriately. For girls, that means: skinny jeans, bangs, and an ill-fitted (read, baggy) top. For extremely skinny boys, that requires: at least one sleeve of tattoos, skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors Converse, a beard, and thick glasses that would make Woody Allen envious. When drinking at a bar, a woman thumbs her nose at cosmos and gulps a whiskey or gin drink. The hipster boy spends $4 for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. What did I order? Brooklyn Lager. I believe they call that "hipster fail."

Williamsburg & Envy

I envy you. It's because you do something you enjoy. There is glory in struggling to pursue a passion. Being a starving artist means you remain a purist and are unwilling to sell out to the man (or you have absolutely no talent, but I'd rather perpetuate this quixotic notion). You're one of the few people that is actually doing what they set out to do as a five year old. I'm certain I never intended to be writing for a financial services company, but then the lure of Wall Street clouded my judgment. I'm not bitter. I think it's great that your trust fund affords you your studio in Williamsburg and the time to "create." And when the public doesn't receive your art, or your writing, or your music, it was because it was too original and too real. There's no way such simple-minded plebians could possibly comprehend your work. To gain mass appeal was never the objective. I get it. If people consume it, then you have failed.