Three years ago I moved to New York City with two suitcases, no money, and a month-long sublet with a burlesque dancer named Cherry Bomb.
I sock Dan in the face and wonder if he’ll have already drafted a title for an article on the sad state of modern masculinity by the time I order my beer. The answer is yes, that wormy prick. Can’t wait to read about it on the High School Reunion Boards. Note to self: troll said boards when you get home.
The lady I sat next to told me she had never used a Scantron; she’d never even seen one until that moment. I watched her flip the paper over and over as she examined it like some strange alien artifact.
I became one of those people who was so profoundly touched by a band’s music. Their lyrics mirrored my feelings exactly and when they were layered upon those jangly guitars, I was in heaven. Although I remained in the closet for a few more years, I was unabashedly in love with The Smiths.