New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down (or what triggered this boredom to begin with)

There are many things I’ve done that I’m not proud of…watched Lifetime, listened to the Fray (more than once), enjoyed Applebee’s (eating good in the neighborhood!), made a guy go down on me without reciprocating…

“Ok,” he says, head up, looking all proud of himself. “It’s my turn.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, putting on my tights.

“What do you mean? I did you, so now you have to do me.”

“Nope. No, I don’t.”

“You’re making me feel inadequate,” he says.

“Well, you are.” Door slam, exit me.

But for the last couple years, I’ve been cleaning house—seeing a therapist, cutting out the bad stuff (i.e. drugs, not drinking as much, etc.), reading a lot of the Deepak Chopra to get in touch with my Up Guru, or the little woman inside me who knows what she really wants to do.

She still doesn’t know what she wants to do.

But after two and half years of this, I’ve been thinking, while this has been nice and all, there will always be a part of me that enjoys being bad. And it doesn’t take a whole lot to push me back into the self-destructive zone.

I met this guy. He seems like a nice-enough, funny, cool guy who lives in my neighborhood, perfect for a few beers from time to time. But he has a girlfriend, which is no problem for me. I have no impure intentions here.

Anyway, I meet guy at the diviest bar in my neighborhood—the Boat. The Boat is where you go when you want to get rip-roaring drunk, laid, do cocaine in the bathrooms—or all of the above in the bathrooms at Boat. In short, it is a wonderfully disgusting place with a great jukebox that features the Clash, Cash and Salt ’n Pepa.

“So, all that talk about blow,” he says later in the evening as we’re walking home. “Are you interested? ’Cause I have some.”

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh. Shit.

My gut reaction is no. It’s been over two years since I’ve touched that shit. And, after recently sitting on a jury panel, I learned that in New York, the dealers tend to cut it with rat poison.

But then I thought fuck it. “Just do one line,” he suggests. So he cuts it up on my little star of David coaster I got for Xmas one year, rolls up a $20, and up it goes.

Of course, this is just precursor to the post-bar 2 a.m. hit job. Lure ’em in with the coke, keep ’em around for the dicking. I basically tell him no way it’s going to happen, and he’s on his way out the door. But sitting there, not feeling too terrible about that albeit only one line I just did, I’m thinking…going out for drinks with dudes with girlfriends? Lines, really? Again? What the fuck?

One Reply to “New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down (or what triggered this boredom to begin with)”

  1. i can handle a sniff of blow or two and the fucking around with inappropriate suitors.

    but admitting publicly to your deepak chopra addiction? definitely one for the fuck-it list.


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