It’s such a shame there are so many homeless populating the streets of NYC- well, for them. I look at it as free entertainment while I wait for my late-night train home. While the masturbating Chinese she-he with pigtails and red scrunchies entertains the N line and the toothless, pole-dancing, old black man entertains the W, my heart belongs to another. It was a warm summer night and I was exhausted and patiently waiting for the train.

Too sleepy to read and too drunk to stand, I found the bench and got as comfortable as a smelly, wooden seat allows. The station was empty except for one- and because I have a staring problem that I am not willing to overcome, I blatantly gawked at the dirty, dirty old man heading my way. Expecting a simple walk-by, I was enthralled when the gentleman’s saunter promptly accelerated to a sprint. Thinking this was the apex of tonight’s show, (it is amusing enough to see a homeless man run his fastest across the platform), my eyes widened in awe as Man left the ground and gracefully flew through the air. Half gazelle, half karate kid, Homeless (his new name) reached an unbelievable height and with a screech, (“HIIIIIIIII-YA!!”), his protruding foot collided with the hanging ‘Exit” sign suspended from the ceiling. I think he even winked at me in the air while we held eye contact.

Don’t get me wrong- particularly trained in classical dance and fully equipped with a high-kick that could knock Godzilla off his rocker, I am not threatened by the dangers of the night. But, I immediately looked away- we were getting too intimate too soon. “YOU KNOWS WHOS YOU LOOK LIKE, GURL?” I didn’t look up in response, I couldn’t. “HEY! GURL! YOU KNOWS WHOS YOU LOOK LIKE?” He suddenly was directly in front of me. My eyes slowly lifted to reach his gaze and my heart quickened. “Please tell me,” I squeaked out. “MARY POPPINS! YOUS EVA HEARD THAT?! YOUS LOOK LIKE MARY PAUUUUUUPPINS!” I had never heard that, possibly because I look absolutely nothing like Mary Poppins. I shook my head ‘no.’ “WELL. DAS GOOD TO LOOK LIKE MUAARY, BECAUSE SHES KNOWN. YOU KNOW?! SHES KNOWN!” (I did not know, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about).

Before I could speak again, Homeless was gracefully lowering himself to one knee. Positioned for a marriage proposal, his eyes softened and he reached both arms over his head and into the backpack he was wearing. Like a knight with his sword, Homeless slowly and elegantly lifted an item out of the bag and over himself. With a bowed head and a gentleness only a real man could possess, he appropriately placed a closed umbrella into my open hands. “This is for you, Mary,” he sensually whispered. As quickly as he had arrived, he was gone. I held my gift delicately, unsure of what to do next. An Indian man who had apparently joined me on the backside of the bench while I was busy with Homeless offered his advice, “I would put that down.” I did not put it down. As the train arrived and the roar of the engine filled the station, I opened my new umbrella. Despite the fact that the top piece flung off and smacked me in the face, consequently flinging my glasses across the concrete- I smiled with content. He had me at ‘HI-YA.’

Photo by fergusonphotography

It was a mere two years ago that I was enrolled in a state university. Although I could punt a medium sized animal farther than the distance between my parents’ house and the campus, I was legitimately making attempts to grow the fuck up.

I survived one year. Consider that claim lightly stated. No more than five days stood between each panic attack and I spent the equivalent amount of time at home as I had when, well.. when I lived there my whole life previous.

Upon erratically informing my parents I was moving to New York City they smirked and bid me farewell. Considering I was the girl who was too afraid to drive on the highway and who couldn’t order her own food at a restaurant, I knew that they expected me back home, shit in my terrified little panties within the week. Fuckers!

As a tribute to my doubtful parentals, I present the following. I ain’t got no college degree but dang I’m a city girl- a classy one I might add.

What I’ve learned in New York City: the most important lessons thus far.

If you show your vagina you will get paid.

The Homeless are people too. Lack of a private habitat does not and will not interfere with masturbation. On public transportation.

Anything can be turned into a bong.

Never mention ‘queefing’ on a date.

“I think you’re amazing and I can’t wait to see you again,” translates literally to: “Glad we fucked. I will now ignore you forever.”

In a recession it is not uncommon to see many pretty girls making out with old rich men at bars.

Managers will pass out coke on dead nights in the restaurant. (Mom, I’ve never tried it, don’t worry.)

You will be cast as the lead in a movie if you’re willing to orally manipulate the penile apparatus.

If you fall asleep on the train late night, you are susceptible to getting a smelly homeless backpack to the face.

“HUGE SPACIOUS ROOM FOR RENT” means ‘if-you-fart-in-this-apartment-building-everyone-will-know-because-we-are-so-cramped room for rent!’

Being a friendly waitress inherently means you’re interested in a threesome with your ugly, old guests.

Unsure if you should lose some weight? Go to a casting, they will let you know.

“Your baby is so adorable! I am going to steal her!” could be considered a legitimate threat and it is not uncommon to see a mother quickly gather her child and run.

Be careful what you read on the train- old Asian women will call you out and publicly deem you perverted. (I swear it was a play on words and legitimately had nothing to do with ‘blow jobs’.)

Do not say the word ‘uterus’ in a text message to a guy you like.

Keep your room clean! Perhaps during a one-night-stand someone might put your undies from the floor on his face. A dirty thong doesn’t consequent a happy face.

I will never find a normal man in the city.

Tits= talent.

I do not have tits.

I have 7 dollars currently in my bank account.

I’ve come a long way from the silly, nervous little New Hampshire girl I once was. Although you had little or no faith in my ability to live on my own, Mom and Dad- I can feel how proud you are when I call home to indirectly ask for more money. Your baby is growing up!

Much like most of humanity, I’d like to think I am ultimately of some value. The optimist in me finds joy in assuring myself that when it comes down to the simplest of terms, I am indeed fantastic, at the least likeable. As for my peers, it seems when someone isn’t interested in their supposed eminent lovability they immediately assume is it a malfunction on the other person’s part; the other must be damaged, incapable of achieving such an emotion. Considering my recent love affairs include being deserted for a married woman, getting a double yeast infection then being deserted and flying a man across the country to see me…to then be deserted- I am starting to develop the suspicion that I am possibly the common factor, the incapable.

Then last week, while I  finally wasn’t searching for it… I met Him. Adorable, intelligent and Southern, he was such a breath of fresh air in this suffocating city! Date #1 went flawlessly, ended in nervous giggles and a peck on the cheek. We made tentative plans to meet Saturday night and I was giddy with excitement.

Thinking I was FINALLY not going to mess this one up, I kept my mouth shut (aka kept my little fingers from their text obsession) alllllllll day. I tend to (erroneously) think everything I say is hilarious and worthy of sharing, therefore my at-that-time love interest is consequently bombarded with my commentary numerous times throughout a given day. Oops. Because I liked this guy, I ignored him- that’s how it works right? According to plan, Boy texts me at 1am. Even in my drunkenness, I know I should not go back to Hoboken with him as he suggests.

I go back to Hoboken with him as he suggests. Except- I don’t travel with him because he has taken the PATH without me while I was leaving one of my good friend’s birthday parties early and in a cab rushing to him to meet him. Because I am as desperate as I appear to be, when he calls me fifteen minutes later ALREADY IN HOBOKEN and persuades me to make the trek alone, I obey.

The station is full of intoxicated couples groping and giggling. I immediately feel as if everyone has spotted me and they can sense my pathetic loneliness. I sit in a corner, on the floor- I am not worthy of the love-filled benches. While waiting on the platform, alone and my face at butt level, a man comes up next to me and farts- it smells terrible. He then says aloud, “Shit, I farted and it smells terrible.” An hour later the train finally rumbles through, I am traumatized and very nervous- but the awaited snuggle is my driving force. He will be the love of my life, I can feel it.

He is not waiting for me on the street like he promised. I call eight times before he answers. ‘Where are you?!’ he demands.

‘I am here!’ I exclaim excitedly.

‘Take a cab here.’ He instructs.

I take a cab there. ‘You be good tonight!’ Cab Driver jokes as I pay him and hop out. Boy’s building is beautifu1! So is the lobby I see through the locked door! I bet his apartment is just as perfect… and his so is his bed… and his lips…

The text-messages that follow:

-I am outside silly! You didn’t answer your phone, come get meeeeeeeeeee !!!!!!!!

-[Pet name I made up, this moment, despite knowing him for one week] come and get your damsel! I am distressed! And drunky!

- I can’t wait to see you! Stop playing! Come get meeeeeeeeeee. Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss

- I might sleep on the ground if you do not hurry.

-Fuck, you are not coming

-OK, I am OK! I still want to see you soon! You must have fallen asleep. I am perfectly fine and I will make it back (the 20 miles) to the PATH train (at 3am, current time).

After 30 minutes of half-cold/half-panic attack shivers and THIRTY FIVE unanswered phone calls to Boy, I give up. I come to terms that I will not be seeing Bed or touching Lips. A highly intoxicated man named Dwayne happens to stumble by and sees me crying pathetically outside the pretty lobby. Dwayne has no idea why I am weeping but yells, “He doesn’t love you! He’s in bed with another woman!” Thank you Dwayne. As much as I want Dwayne to go away he is the only other life form I have seen in the past hour. I rationalize that it’s OK if he murders me Ted Bundy style, it is better than waiting out here alone- and Boy will feel extra bad in the morning if I am bloody and in pieces on the sidewalk. Dwayne can barely speak he is so inebriated, so I refuse his offer to drive me back to Queens. Instead, we walk together to find me a taxi to get back to the PATH train. “Rule #1,” murmurs Dwayne, “no crying!” “Rule #2,” he continues, “no crying!” Despite the repetitive ‘rules’ that continue until we spot a cab, I come to care for Dwayne because he loves me when no one else does. I think he thinks I am his wife because he keeps saying, “You are my wife.”

While waiting for the train that comes once every half hour, the train that I missed by three minutes because I dropped my silver dollar buying a ticket and a homeless man dove on it, the train that only I am waiting for because everyone else in mother fucking New fucking Jersey is sleeping, drinking or having sex- I start laughing hysterically. ‘This is so beneath me!’ I laugh. Stinky McGee homeless man attempting to sleep on a near by bench yells, “whoever is fucking making that noise better be quiet or I am GOING TO COME OVER THERE AND SHOOT YOU IN THE FACE.” Because clouds of shit-stained dirt float from his body with his every move, and because do not like being shot in the face- I poop my pants with fear and sit miserably in heartbroken silence.

Just as I start to drift off into an awkward sitting-on-a-bench-with-a-drooping-head slumber, a velour goddess dances by my peripheral view. I look up to see a woman with the biggest ass I have ever come across, with the tightest purple jumpsuit hugging it. She seduces me with her eyes and because I have a staring problem I, again, am not willing to correct- I continue to watch. Her silent dance is just for me and she closes her eyes and lets the music (only heard by her) take control. Soon she is jumping! I am convinced she is a siren! Unfortunately, this jumping forces the zipper down on her velour sweatshirt and her two tube-sock shaped boobies pop out and say a quick, ‘hello!’ to me. She swiftly ropes in the beasts with both arms and we share an awkward glance of terror. I have embarrassed the prostitute on ecstasy.

Upon my arrival in NYC, I must then walk 10 minutes in my hooker boots to the E train.

It is not long before someone joins me on the bench I have chosen once in the station, and I am confused why they have decided to sit in the seat directly next to me- there are many available benches. Because my new friend is a 250 lbs woman, we are sitting very closely. After such a night I long to be touched- even if it is just an arm fat-roll. I am her Rob and she is my Big. She is breathing heavily and I assholeishly assume it is because she’s large and walked the length of the platform. False. Big is crying, which progresses into a loud sob. I tend to touch strangers so I rub her back with my adjacent hand and ask ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’ll be OK, I’ll be OK’ she studders through her blubbering.

Before I have time to remove my right arm off Big’s back, she has surrendered to her suffering and leans fully into my little arms. I am cradling Big, this is something I have never done before so I am nervous and tenderly continue to rub her back. I assure her all is well. I am lying, I have no idea why she is even crying

As if a shooting star through the darkest of nights, my E train arrives and I am freed of Big’s distress. She is happy and totters to the train and I am happy and finally on my way home! And once I am off the train my bed will be so close and I can sleep in it! Who knew this basic commodity and liberty could sound so fantastic… when I could have just gone straight to it instead of going to Hoboken! The only thing that excites me more than my imminent slumber is the guaranteed apology Boy owes me. He will definitely have to do something spectacular to redeem himself. Maybe he will even come to see me and spend all Sunday here! I can hardly fall asleep anticipating the impending gifts, apologies and maybe even SURPRISES awaiting me in the morning.

Throughout the night, perhaps early morning, I hear my phone vibrate but I continue to sleep; if the text is from Boy I can savor it when I wake up. I’m not desperate here- he has to wait for ME now. I love this!

The text was from Boy. One measly fucking apology text- followed by continued ignoring, topped off with a blocking on Facebook. Fuck.

It’s Sunday night and the beer spilt on my boobies at my friend’s birthday party the night previous still remains. I am not wearing a bra, my hair is an afro and Full House is on the TV. The couple I live with are drunk with love and wine, giggling about as they make dinner for us. Because I am the third wheel constantly, they call me their ‘daughter.’ I am eating ice cream out of the tub, drinking wine from the bottle and waiting for dinner with my ‘parents,’ braless.

I am now confident that I am indeed the flawed one.