Looking for credit in the straight world.

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Four weeks in New York. Everything is expensive. The whole city stinks like farts and garbage. The trains rule, except on weekends, holidays, and when you miss yours. I’ve seen human shit on the subway twice. I tell my mother and she says matter-of-factly, ‘schizophrenics do that, honey. They think if they flush it down the toilet the government will go through it.’

The dudes here aren’t that cute. Nothing here is legit. There is no privacy, space, time, fresh air, or courtesy. I read anything I can get my hands on because subway rides are long and take up much of my day. Fight Club is the most overrated book I’ve ever read.

I bought two shirts from American Apparel and a pair of fake white Ray Bans.

Put on Girl Talk. I’ve sold the fuck out.

One of my first blog entries, entitled “Two TVs And Two Cadillac Cars,” after moving to New York in 2007. My, my. Wasn’t I a snotty little 27 year-old.