Kidnapped And Taken Somewhere Familiar

My office closed between Christmas and New Years, so I flew to Seattle with my best friend Joey to escape the blistering South Louisiana winter. In the month leading up to our trip, I struck up a relationship with a skinny, tattooed aspiring rocker and gainfully employed stockboy named Pete.

We'd known each other for years, but finally started to take our potential seriously. He convinced me to open up and be vulnerable with him, so I became comfortable and sincere. I sent him pictures from the top of the Space Needle and Snapchats of Dim Sum from Chinatown. In pockets of downtime, we'd have long, meaningful discussions about our insecurities and how we liked to fuck.

Then, the day before I returned to New Orleans, he ghosted. No response for more than 36 hours until this: "Hey. Been really busy. My bad." Joey and I were having dinner at the Airport Marriott bar when he sent his apology text. I read it and reread it. Then I excused myself, marched directly to our room, and vomited — learning immediately that clam chowder tastes exactly the same on the way up.

A few hours earlier, Joey and I were sitting on the waterfront eating the chowder I'd later projectile against the back of the toilet bowl. "What's one thing you've learned?" asked Joey. "Like if you had once piece of wisdom to impart on the world, what would it be?" The breeze off the sound picked up, so I pulled the piping hot bowl around my nose and mouth. "I don't know anything," I said. "Except that everyone has conflicting desires and everyone is capable of anything." A guy and a girl walked by and together we ogled the guy's ass until he was out of sight. I don't remember asking Joey what he'd learned.

After wiping the toilet rim clean, I draw a bath — cranking the gauge to scalding hot. Then I put on the new Run The Jewels album and wedge in my earbuds. I slide down so the steaming water rises around my throat.

When I wake, there's no music because I've cycled through the entire album. I can hear the TV in the other room, which means Joey must've returned from the bar. I ruffle through the pile of towels on the floor and locate my phone. Then I text the words "fuck you" and swipe the thread clean. No evidence.

Everyone is capable of anything and that leaves hearts, even the strongest hearts, open to bruises and breaks. Even worse, your heart registers disappointment before the rest of you, which means it gets a double-barrel shotgun blast of anger and hopelessness. It doesn't matter how many times the muscle in my chest tears apart and mends itself back together, I can still find myself here. It's like being kidnapped and taken somewhere familiar.

I towel off and slip on a robe. Then I crawl into bed next to Joey and together we watch the lights flicker on and off in the buildings that cluster into the Seattle skyline.

Chex After Sex

Some people like a cigarette after sex, but I prefer cereal.

I like to stand in the kitchen [wearing either briefs, a T-shirt, or nothing], and shotgun one bowl of cereal after another until I feel fulfilled by grain and dairy in ways a man cannot facilitate.

To me, it's fascinating how someone can achieve orgasm and immediately, impulsively crave something else. Isn't that the whole point of sex? To scratch an itch? To satisfy an impulse? And yet here I am, hunched over a bowl of cereal with one hand gripping my spoon and the other reaching for the box, ready to pour another bowl.

More than anything, it's about savoring texture; dry, crunchy cereal mixing with thick, ice-cold 2% milk. When it comes to category preference, I don't like the sugary stuff. I like the bland stuff: Corn Flakes, Kix, Rice Krispies, and most of all, Chex. Eating Chex is a truly remarkable culinary experience: the structural fragility, how it retains milk in the cross-stitching, the way each crispy pillow breaks between the tip of my tongue and the roof of my mouth. A mouthful of Chex is a well-earned reward that makes sex all the more enjoyable.

This afternoon, I received a text from a guy with whom I haven't had sex in more than five years. His name is Trey and we often see each other at the bars, though we rarely chitchat or even nod in the other's direction. He asked me if I wanted to hang out, and since I'd spent my entire Sunday rewatching episodes of Bojack Horseman and washing piles of dirty laundry with no intention of actually hanging anything up, I said yes. We drank beers at his kitchen table (Bud Lite by the can), and then he asked if I wanted to watch TV in his bed. "I don't have cable or Netflix or anything," he added while leading me down a hallway. I felt myself frown.

When it was over, he walked me all the way downstairs and right up to front gate, which I thought was nice because I wouldn't have even left the bed, had the hosting duties been reversed. If we were at my apartment, it's highly likely I'd say something like, "So you know how to get out of here, right?" without moving a muscle or putting on underwear. I didn't read into his small act of gentlemanly kindness, but I noted it for future reference; how it made me feel like a douche because I wouldn't have done the same for him.

On the way home, I listened to "My Favorite Murder" and thought about my fully stocked pantry. I'd gone to the grocery the day before in a futile effort to keep myself away from restaurants. I don't cook, which means virtually every meal is delivered by server or driver or Subway Sandwich Artist. But at the moment, there were tons of food at my house, including two brand-new boxes of Chex.

I'm more aware of my emotional shortcomings and physical imperfections when I'm having sex [even within someone I love, especially with someone I love]. But for just a few minutes after engaging in something that makes me feel alive and enriched and disappointed and self-aware and moved and drained and excited and conflicted, I can have a bowl of cereal and feel like a kid again.

Sex is such an adult thing and cereal is the opposite; uncomplicated and easy to manage. There are no apps involved or issues of tone to be misunderstood. No friend zones or bios to write about yourself. No stakes. No shame. Just the simple joys of childhood, best enjoyed with cartoons.

Claudia

I have to use Uber's GPS locator because I don't really know where I am.

So many New Orleans neighborhoods look exactly like this one. Potholes shotgun-blasted across gravelly streets, lined with shotgun homes painted in dull pastels. The app says I'm in Riverbend, just a few blocks from South Carrollton. I request a ride and settle onto a porch, finally becoming aware of my appearance. My camera shows me what I look like; the beginning of a daylong recovery. Uber says my driver's name is Claudia and she drives a Hyundai Santa Fe.

Here she is now.

"Hey there, good morning," Claudia says cheerfully as I heave my body into the backseat. "Hi," I say. "I feel like shit. Please don't look at me." She laughs. "Rough night?" she asks my reflection in the rearview. "Rough life," I say. "I got hammered in the Quarter and went home with some guy.”

Outside, the endless ribbon of houses cuts away and we're on Carrollton.

In age, Claudia hovers someone between my mom and my grandma. She has all the trappings of a young mother from her top bun to her stylish warm-up jacket, but the lines around her mouth and eyes give her away. "Was he cute?" she asks. “Didn’t get a good look,” I say, squinting into the sunlight.

Gay men have an inborn talent to disarm women. This can be used selfishly to gain the favor of a bitchy female hostess or a busy female flight attendant. But most of the time, it just helps break the threat barrier. I am gay and I am not going to hurt you. Let’s grab brunch.

“Well I’m seeing a really cute guy myself,” says Claudia. I wave my hand in the air next to her head. “Show me pics!” I say, gesturing for her phone. “Oh,” she says. “He’s not on Facebook.” She smiles at me in the mirror. “Good for him,” I say. “How’d you meet?” I drop my hand into my lap and stare out the window. Up here on I-10, the New Orleans skyline is so close I can almost touch it. I’ve rounded the Superdome on this same stretch of overpass for 28 years, but I still take a moment to marvel at it when I swoop past. People often say the Superdome looks like a spaceship, but to me, it looks like a megachurch. I think the Saints would appreciate that sentiment.

“We work together,” she says. “When I’m not driving Uber, I work in the Philanthropy Department at a big hospital in town. Matthew’s our IT guy. That’s his name, by the way. Matthew.” She lights up when she says his name. I can hear her grinning from ear to ear. “Girl, good for you!” I say with exaggerated gay inflections. She’s opening up because she likes me and she feels comfortable, and suddenly I want to know more about her.

There’s a branded Ochsner Hospital badge hanging from her visor that reads, “Claudia” and no last name. I pull out my phone and go straight for the Ochsner website and search the name “Claudia.” Her employee bio appears with the same headshot from her badge. With her last name in-hand, I head to Facebook and search “Claudia Caulder.” There she is. I stare down at her profile picture and then I glance up and catch her looking back at me in the mirror. She winks and I smile. I pull my phone to my chest for extra measure, even though there’s absolutely no way she can see what I’m looking at: Claudia Caulder’s Facebook account, emblazoned with a photograph of her family.

In the picture, everyone is wearing shades of blue and standing on a beach in (what I’m guessing is) Destin or Santa Rosa or somewhere in the Florida panhandle. Backlit by the setting sun, Claudia stares lovingly at her husband while two ginger-haired girls cheese it up for the camera. They look exactly like their dad. I press the home button and Facebook shrinks away.

Even though I smoked all night and my tongue is dried out like a welcome mat, the craving for a cigarette makes my mouth water. Then I hear myself ask, “Do you have any kids?” She looks back at me, and this time, she isn’t smiling. “Yes,” she said, flatly. “Two girls.” I nod. “Have they met the new guy yet?” I grapple with my boldness and wonder why I’m fucking with this woman. But in my carefree hungover state, I can’t help myself. “No,” she says, throwing her response away through the hollow tunnel between us.

We glide in silence through the Lower Garden District and I think about last night. I lied to Claudia when I told her I didn’t get a good look at the guy. His name was Cody and he was incredibly handsome. We’re in the same kickball league and after ogling him for an entire season, I built up the courage to ask him out and he said yes. Last night, when he kissed me, I wanted him to like it — my head buzzing with hyper awareness of my own body. This morning, when he walked me to the door, I took a picture of him from behind and sent it to a few friends. I feel bad about doing that but not bad enough to delete it. Then I send it to a few more people.

We pull into the horseshoe of my apartment complex and Claudia turns down the music. “I lied to you earlier,” I say, suddenly. “I actually like the guy I slept with last night. I hope he texts me. He’s really cute and he’s very sweet.” Claudia turns and looks me directly in the eyes. The lines around her mouth and eyes soften and she looks instantly looks 10 years younger. “I’m having an affair with the IT guy,” she says. “And every day I feel like I’m losing the woman I was.” I look back at her and bite my bottom lip as a gesture of sympathy. “The woman I am,” she corrects herself. “There’s nothing sexy about this,” she continues. “I walk around the office scared shitless that one of my co-workers knows. And every afternoon, on my drive home, I have to remember to delete his text thread. Sometimes we have dinner at the Applebee’s in Algiers because it’s 45 minutes away from my house.” She blinks hard to suppress the tears, but it doesn’t work. “And I fucking hate Applebee’s!”

I look down and realize I’m holding her hand. On the corner, at a coffee shop, a man opens the door for his female companion and I decide that he’s a gentleman and that they should get married if they haven’t already. I want to ask Claudia what she’s going to do about this, but I don’t. Instead, I tell her that I’ve never been married and I’m not going to pretend to know what that’s like. “It’s really hard to keep a secret, especially from the people you love,” I say. Then I don’t say anything at all. We sit together in wordless solitude while New Orleans wakes up around us.

I yank my shirtsleeve over my hand and wipe away Claudia’s runny mascara. “I hope that boy calls you, sweetheart,” she says, turning around and running her fingers over her face in the mirror. “If you ever feel like doing this again,” I say. “You know where I live.” She laughs and winks at me in the mirror while I open the door and step outside.

The fall weather is unseasonably warm, even for New Orleans. I decide that as soon as I get inside, I’m taking the longest shower of my life and tossing this entire outfit in the washer. “I hope you have a great day,” I say, actually meaning it. “Take care, sweetheart,” she says. Then, Claudia closes the door and pulls away, out of the horseshoe and onto Annunciation and out of sight.

Anyway, Uber, this was one of the most emotionally draining rides I’ve ever experienced. I’m not looking for anything, but I just thought you should know that one of your drivers is going through a tough time. Obviously, I rated her five stars, but frankly, she was a lot to deal with. As an advertising professional, I don’t want consumers believing that Uber aligns itself with adulterers who discuss their infidelities with passengers. Please keep an eye on Claudia for the sake of the brand.

Sincerely,

Ryan Rogers

SECOND ENDING

The hardest part about breaking up with Jeffrey was not the actual break-up. It was four days later, when I noticed his toothbrush.

I’m not sure how I missed it, but today, I stepped out the shower and there it was. This might sound stupid, but I always liked seeing our toothbrushes leaning together in the highball glass, next to the sink. His toothbrush was certainly not the first to share occupancy with mine, but this particular union charmed me — maybe because they were both hot pink.

---

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was released last week. I figured I’d grab a pair of tickets to the earliest screening on opening night, and then have dinner at Chipotle. Jeffery’s a picky eater, but he loves Chipotle. So I texted him and asked if he wanted to go. He responded immediately, “I think we need to talk tonight.” Without panicking, I suggested we meet at my apartment around eight, to which he agreed. Then, I spent the afternoon compulsively checking my phone and sitting with my face in my hands.

On the drive home, I changed my mind and asked him to call me, two hours and thirty-nine minutes before he was supposed to show up. “Let’s just chat now,” I said. Chat, I thought to myself. Like we’re going to enjoy this.

The chat lasted 14 minutes and was, all things considered, pleasant. We spoke in level voices and shared supportive sentiments and related to one another. At the end, I asked if there was anything else he’d like to say before we hung up. “I love you,” he said. “Always will.” And then I hung up and hurried out the door to make my yoga class on time.

I didn’t think about it much the next day — except for the occasional phantom impulse to text him. Waiting in line at Subway, I typed, “Getting lunch. What are you eating?” before realizing I didn’t have to do that anymore.

After work, I got a haircut from Paul, my barber. I stared blankly at my reflection and asked, “Do people sometimes cry in your chair?”
“Sometimes,” he said. Sure.”
I nodded. “Do guys cry in your chair?”
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “Do you need to cry, man? Go ahead. It’s all good.”
I blew a freshly cut curl off my forehead. “No,” I lied. “I’m okay.”

A break-up happens and you want to be angry about everything you wasted: the time, the money, the headspace. All those songs you memorized because they reminded you of him. All the effort you spent learning the names of his siblings and their kids and how the nuances of his family factor into his personality. All the social media real estate you share. So many pictures together. All those nights you stayed home with him when you could’ve been out there in the world, living life. All the times you conceded an argument [when you were absolutely right], because it was easier to say “You’re right. I’m sorry.” You hate yourself for compromising so much. You hate yourself for not standing on your principles. Now, you’re standing in a ruin with nothing but a body you’re unhappy with and prospect of dating new people looming in the distance.

---

This morning, when I saw his toothbrush, I tossed it into the trash and placed the highball glass in the dishwasher. I laid my own toothbrush on the edge of the sink because I thought it would look sad standing upright, alone in another glass.

I’m bound to find more little relics of our relationship here and there; gym shorts and handwritten cards and memories that I’ll romanticize with filters and soundtracks. But right now, I won’t go looking for them.

Instead, I’ll wait for them to find me again. And there, I’ll savor the opportunity to be angry, resigned, and close to him for just a moment.

The Way David Eats Pizza

It’s three a.m. on the 27th floor of an apartment building on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, and I am sitting across from David Lafuente, watching him eat pizza.

I arrived in Manhattan two days ago and caught an Uber straight to David’s apartment. He greeted me at the door and ushered me inside. Upon entering, my eyes were drawn across the living room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city beyond 37th Street, framing a breathtaking landscape of towers. Standing there, looking out over Midtown West, I wished for a dry erase marker. The view begged for contextual labels: arrows addressing the names of buildings and dividing lines along neighborhood borders. Now, days later, the world behind the glass feels less dioramatic and more like flat wallpaper. The New York skyline has become a vinyl cling from Urban Outfitters, in front of which David and me eat pizza.

Earlier this evening, we were walking home from a bar when David nodded to a bright red awning several blocks away. “You wanted some really good pizza, no?” David always punctuates his questions with a firmly inflected “no,” which I find charmingly European, even though he’s Mexican. I was still stuffed from dinner, but I was also drunk, which means I was starving. David launches into Spanish with the man behind the counter and I allow my mind to drift while he takes care of business. I bend at the waist to inspect the giant display pizzas. Each one is pale and unappetizing, which makes me feel sad for the slices that don't get to reanimate in the oven. My pizza grief takes an upswing when David shoves a warm cardboard box into my hands and says, “Let’s go home.”

Back at the apartment, the living room is dense with pot. When David opens a window, the faraway noises of New York travel on cool air and reach me at the coffee table. He walks into the kitchen then returns with plates, silverware, napkins, stemware, and wine. He sets places for the two of us and settles in.

I’ve never seen anyone eat pizza the way David eats pizza. First, he uses a knife and fork to remove all the toppings — rolling and piling pepperoni, Italian sausage, and gobs of cheese into a meaty queso fundido. This heap sits alongside the flat triangle crust, which, for lack of a better euphemism, appears skinned alive. He spins his plate around and saws off a small segment of the crust. Then, with knife and fork, he rolls the half-inch of crust in the molten cheese mixture and pops it into his mouth. He repeats this process over and over with elegant precision — coating bite-size morsels of crust with mozzarella and huge pieces of meat. He does not eat the body of the pizza (the wide, doughy triangle lacquered with marinara), but instead, he sets it aside and moves on the next slice. I can only stare in rapt bewilderment while I attempt to shotgun my entire slice.

It’s funny how uncovering a small quirk — a little oddity just under the surface — can completely change the way you see a person. It’s why I don’t discuss porn with my best friends. And now, here I am, re-framing the way I think about David Lafuente while he meticulous scrapes the toppings off his second slice of pizza before chopping up the crust.

I used to think he was incredibly handsome, back when we met in Playa del Carmen. During sex, I would stare at his face, studying his strong chin and dark chocolate eyes. I liked the way he told stories about growing up in Mexico City and about running a restaurant in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I stood with him on our balcony and watched the star-scattered sky over Playa del Carmen before kissing his lips and falling into his arms. When he left the next morning, I cried because I never thought I’d see him again.

Over the years, I remembered our time together romantically. We fell out of touch, but regularly liked pictures on Instagram and posts on Facebook, small gestures to remind the other of his existence. Months ago, when an opportunity to visit New York popped up, he was the first person that came to mind.

Lately, my boyfriend and I haven't been getting along.

In fact, we got in a very serious argument before I boarded the plane.

I try calling him every few minutes and he doesn't pick up. In his texts, he says it's over.

So earlier this evening, I decided to get fucked up and have sex with David, just to spite my boyfriend. I got obliterated at dinner and then continued to pound one vodka tonic after another at the gay bar. My flirting was shameless and obvious, but I didn't have anything to lose, so I didn't care how it looked. Finally, I suggested we head home because his bed was the only place in Manhattan I wanted to be. And on the way back, we stopped for pizza.

Everything was going according to plan, until he started this weird, mystifying ritual with his food. I want to ask him why he's doing this, but I bet his response will annoy me.

Right now, he's watching me cram a second slice down my throat and I can see a tinge of horror in his face. He thinks I'm gross and I think he's an asshole for dismembering perfectly fine pizza. "It's good, no?" he says. Suddenly, I don't find the way he punctuates his questions with a firmly inflected “no" charmingly European. I find it ridiculous. "It's fucking great!" I say, only it sounds completely muffled because I have a whole slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza lodged into my mouth like an oversized duffle bag in an overhead compartment. His eyebrows furrow and the mood changes dramatically. We are both wading in a river of wine, vodka, marinara sauce, and sudden contempt for one another.

When we finish, he clears the dishes and I curl up on the couch with a brand new joint. "Are you coming to bed?" he asks from the doorway of his room. "Nah," I say, lighting the joint and inhaling deeply. "I'll crash here tonight." He almost looks relieved. "Sweet," he says. "Night!" And just like that, he closes the door and leaves me alone in the living room.

A cool breeze turns the pages of an open book on the coffee table. Through the window, I can see an army of giants stalking me; a million glowing eyes watching the loneliest man in New York.

Tomorrow, I will call my boyfriend again.

I will call him over and over.

And when I get back to New Orleans that evening, I will try to work this out because he is the real man of my dreams.

I will ask him to meet me at my apartment in the heart of the Lower Garden District.

When he gets there, I will have his favorite pizza waiting for him.

Then, we will sit on my bed, across from one another, and eat each slice from tip to crust, like two normal people who also happen to be in love.

Jeffrey

I’ve never told you this, but in the morning, when you’re still asleep, I put my face as close as I can to yours. 

I lay next to you in intimate, wordless solitude, the tips of our noses nearly touching. I gage your breathing and adjusting mine so that we’re alternating breaths. When you breathe out, I breathe in.

Sometimes I keep my eyes closed and sometimes I watch you — taking in your face, feature to feature. When I look at you from across the dinner table or in the mirror when you’re brushing your teeth, I can clearly see that you have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. But at close range [at a distance where I can feel your breath and your body heat and the life buzzing around your face], you are somehow even more breathtaking. Up close, you are a perfect collage of shapes and colors. Sharp black punctures, soft angular shadows, and a pale rosy glow just under your skin.

When you stir or tussle, I run my fingertips through your thick blond hair or lay my palm flatly across the side of your face, just to reassure you that I’m here.

Sometimes I kiss you on the forehead or right on the lips. I press my lips softly against your face and hope it reaches you, wherever you are in your dreams.

On days when we have to be up early for work, I savor your nearness intensely. On weekends, I can do this for hours. And it’s always my favorite part of the day.

Sometimes, in the quiet stillness of my bedroom, I tell you I’m sorry.

I tell you I’m sorry for not always being a great boyfriend.

I tell you I’m sorry for fraying the friable trust we’ve built with my crippling insecurities.

I tell you I’m sorry for continually breaking your heart.

I tell you I’m sorry within inches from your face, while you are sleeping because your silence and beauty feel the same as forgiveness.

In my heart, I want to stay with you and work this out. Because I love you so much that I enjoy the simple pleasure of breathing the same air as you.

But you can go.

And I can let you go.

The future won’t be so painful with all these memories I have — treasuring your face in the moments before you wake up, sleepily look me in the eyes and say, “I love you.”

17 Easy Steps To Prepare For A First Date

Step 1. Pick out an outfit.

Step 2. Shave your face.

Step 3. Treat yourself to a compulsive psychological episode. In the getting-ready process, most micro-breakdowns manifest when you’re taking a shower. So strip down, put on some tunes, and brace yourself. Speaking of music selection, there’s a pre-made Spotify playlist called “Night At The Strip Club,” and it’s an excellent choice for background music when preparing for a romantic night on the town. So press play and body-roll your way through the entire Ying Yang Twins catalog. Then experience the sudden, overwhelming dick-punch of reality when you think to yourself, Oh God! I’m about to go on a date with someone for the first time! What am I doing?!

Step 4. Towel off and blow-dry your hair. Pro Tip: Your hair should be 60-to-65 percent dry before blow-drying with a brush.

Step 5. Direct a series of questions at yourself. Some should be practical, like “Do I have money in my checking account?” And some can be more existential, like “How did I fuck up my life so dramatically?” But each one should be accompanied by a palpable rush of terror and self-deprecating anger.

Step 6. Amplify this episode by giving yourself insufficient time to get ready. Never get ready too early. This will help you avoid downtime to mull over new worries. This also backfires when you end up sprinting from room to room — trying to make your face and body pass for fuckable.

Step 7. Stand in front of a full-length vertical mirror. Here, you will study your reflection and question how you achieved this toneless, adolescent build. With the possibility of sex looming in the near future, take this opportunity to yell at yourself for all the drugs, alcohol, and Taco Bell you’ve consumed over the course of a lifetime. Pinch every flab. Blame your parents for shitty genetics. Curse God for letting you develop into someone who’s perpetually recovering from the night before. You look fat and skinny. You look too young and too old. You are a physical paradox. And somehow you have a date tonight.

Step 8. FUCK! YOU HAVE A DATE TONIGHT! Get your shit together! No time for crying. Crying can wait ‘til later when you’re drunk and alone.

Step 9. Have a drink. Right now. Slip on your underwear and yank up your socks, then hustle to the kitchen and shotgun a Michelob Ultra. That’s better, you’ll think to yourself. You’re going to be fine.

Step 10. Spend the next few minutes ironing your outfit in hurried brush strokes. At this point, you won’t necessarily feel calm but you will feel like you’re going to make it.

Step 11. Return to the mirror, fully dressed.

Step 12. Look at yourself. Take it all in. Then, feel yourself come undone. There’s discoloration on your sleeves and a stain on your collar. You generally hate the outfit. Grit your teeth and cover your face with your hands so you don’t have to see what’s in front of you.

Nothing fits.

Nothing’s new.

You wish you had nicer things.

You wish you made more money.

You wish this wasn't you.

Step 13. Go ahead, treat yourself to a nice, long cry.

Step 14. Snap out of it! Run cold water and dab your eyes and cheeks. Then find the clothes you wore to work yesterday and toss them into the dryer with a Bounce Sheet and an ice cube. Open Spotify and change “Night At The Strip Club” to “Angry Workout Jamz.” Turn the music all the way up as you latch your knock-off Rolex and mist a Birchbox cologne sample across your neck. Then tell yourself, Fuck. This. I did not spend two days trying to convince some boy on Grindr — who works in retail no less — to be interested in me, just to break down in overtime. This is happening. Right. Fucking Now.

Step 15. Moisturize.

Step 16. Somehow muster the confidence to leave the house and go to dinner with someone you barely know.

And finally…

Step 17. Later, when you’re sitting across the table from a perfect stranger, experience an entirely new dimension of horror as you agree with ideas you don’t believe and pretend to be someone you’re not.