Tough Crowd

It was forty-something degrees warm, this winter day. I was four/ zero on responses from the opposite sex; a fuck buddy, a couple of ex's and a past fling. I was caught talking to a hot hispanic hipster in my Barcthelona t-shirt at a bar, who was talking mostly about his current girlfriend garnished with some talk of his ex-girlfriend. Gross-- do these sorts of men only find hapiness in the women they're with? Is that supposed to be attractive to us, chicks? Shit, do I only find happiness in the men I am with? I took my bra off mid-conversation, as I have grown accustomed to not wearing one over the past few months (my boobs have gotten larger as I've gained some weight back from cleansing and I've been forced to tie them up again). He claimed to enjoy my personal company although his current girlfriend had bought him his mittens earlier today and I now knew all about it. I was nostalgic over my movie star fling, because hell, that's what you've become. I hope you hate that reference as much as I do-- why the fuck have I gone without hearing from you for so, so long? Did I ever even know you? Did we ever share a bed? I was sober on Jameson and Guinness and chicken fingers and salad-- god, I love New York late at night. It was my "best friend's" birthday. We had had a recent falling out but have been best friends for years and years, which is why I put "best friend's" in quotes. I was caught talking to her friends about my life-- why do people ask me such inquisitive questions? I doubt I initially come off all that captivating, in a winter cap and big red gym t-shirt, sans bra. Do they really care? Do they only ask to provoke me to ask questions back? Because, I don't quite care yet, if at all, although I do enjoy a conversation with a stranger at a bar-- especially one with someone I project to not to see ever again-- because I can be whomever the frick I want to be.

Which is usually just my most confident self. And that's the dialog that brings me here.


It's five AM, in Brooklyn.