the fire escape diaries, part I: before you decided to steal my wallet

Hey harlots. Today, I’m going to share the tale of the current number one human on my list of enemies (well, number one on my list of enemies that I don’t feel guilty about discussing publicly… multiple long stories there. Hi Luke.)

Anyway, about two months ago, I randomly hooked up with this photographer who I met at Flower Shop… this is where I meet 30% of the men who try to ruin my life. The other 70% are credited to dating apps. Thanks modern technology.

So let’s set the scene: I was sitting on my stoop, smoking a cigarette, looking bitchy, and one of his French friends approached me. A bit of small talk followed, and they ended up inviting me inside. Looking bitchy is honestly one of the best ways to make friends. Especially with men. And especially with French men. I think they "like the challenge." Or whatever.

Basically, this led to getting too intoxicated, being offered too much cocaine, wandering around the Lower East Side because he apparently knew the owners at every other bar (which is either a lie, or just… an obnoxious thing to say), and then sitting on my fire escape making out. And then my couch. And then my bed. You get the point.

That next weekend, I (of course) ended up at Flower Shop past 3 am (again), hanging out downstairs with the owners, and definitely annoying them to no end. What else is new. Oops.

The other girl there was like 22, and apparently friends with like Bella Hadid or something, so I wasn’t exactly among my people. But I pretended. Whatever. I said I was from Kansas a few times to throw people off (you know, Westchester… Kansas… same difference. They both suck.).

Anyway, 3 glasses of sauvignon blanc post 3 am normally leads to a similar sort of bad decision, so at 4 am, I ended up in Bushwick with this man. Good times.

The next day, I woke up at 12:45, when I had a 1 pm brunch in Manhattan, managed to move that to an hour later, got dressed, somehow also managed to look presentable in last night’s clothing, ran to whatever subway line even makes it all the way out to that area in Bushwick, and continued on with my life.

He was texting me a bit at first, and then suddenly stopped, which genuinely confused me, because to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what could possibly be more fun than texting me. Like, I have a major superiority complex, so whenever someone doesn’t think that I’m hilarious, I automatically assume that they’re mentally inept. And I know what I look like naked. Basically, people who aren’t obsessed with me just CONFUSE me.

Anyway, then I looked at his instagram story and it turns out he was busy hanging out with… Emily Ratajkowski. Even the dark depths of my superiority complex can accept that as an excuse. Definitely one of the few situations during which not responding to my texts was acceptable. I’m so understanding.

Until he decided to force me not to be. More on that later.

*Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.