Your Rafiqis food

is not a balanced breakfast;

you smell garlicky.

(Also, where the hell is there a Rafiqis in Brooklyn?)


The dulcet tones of

Dave Matthews covers, always

drowned by the saw gal.


Blind man belts oldies

and doesn’t feel the dollar

fall into his pail.


Spare Change guy: where do

you get your fly kicks? Surely

not with quarters, right?


Bachata, screaming

from a young woman’s headphones

kids must be so deaf.


I know you’re real tired,

smelly, drunk old lady, but

please don’t sleep on me.


100 bonus points to you if you know the above reference!

Today brings us to the last in a series of somewhat comic single-life misadventures. As the summer of 2008 ground to a close, I began to take serious stock of my obsessive search for a mate. My methods were clearly not working and while it would have been easy enough to blame the general male populace in the New York Metro area for sucking SO HARD, it was mostly my own fault that I was still single. Scheduling 3 dates with 3 different men every weekend was just confusing and it was getting really difficult to keep them all straight in my brain. My wallet was certainly suffering from being such a 21st century gal and worst of all, my friends were beginning to notice my slowly building lunacy. I tacitly decided to stop the months-long manhunt after this final tale (another where I behave kind of badly):

In Which Our Heroine Learns About the Dangers of Making Out with a Man in a Dark Club and Going Out With Him Later

There is this shitty bar/club on the Lower East Side called Home Sweet Home that was my absolute favorite place at this period. Everyone I know who I dragged out there Saturday after Saturday has since told me they really didn’t like it; with a lucidity that only time can bring, I too recall all of its attributes that made Home Sweet Home empirically awful. Basically, this place was like someone’s unfinished basement, with bare cement floors, old couches and exposed brick walls. The sound system was so bad that it blew out around 1:30 AM every Saturday, and could only be resuscitated by one of the DJs fanning the back of the speakers with a towel. Based on how many people were shoved in there, its owners did not believe in fire codes. The bartenders thought they were the coolest people in New York and treated clientele as such. I tried to get with one of them, but the story of Jasper McAndy, AKA Bone Necklace, AKA one of the stupidest men I’ve ever met, is best saved for another time. Its patrons were a weird mix of Bridge & Tunnel and the Douchiest Hipsters Around. Home Sweet Home’s only saving graces were a fun set of guys on the decks (though they weren’t really decks more than one of the dudes’ MacBooks) and stupidly strong drinks. The DJs played only songs I loved and they always honored my requests. The cocktails always got me drunk.

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