A stale brick tenement on West 72nd Street on Sunday afternoon, New York, New York. In this year nineteen ninety-six. Seinfeld with his notes at his table, the smell of his clothes priestlike, dry flesh within.
The pictures were standard, the usual still shots of us laughing together like we were in an Olive Garden commercial (“Spicy Alfredo with Shrimp! Oh, what a silly order!”). But what was curious was that in every single photo, one of my friends was making the Duck Face.
The fact that midnight is the start of a new day and it isn’t whenever you wake up.
You can make all of the “right” decisions and sound awesome to your parents’ judgy friends at dinner parties, or you can do what you really want and succeed or fail by your own terms.