I wonder what I look like to a stranger. More specifically, I wonder what I look like from a birds-eye view, seven stories up. Apparently from this vantage point, there is something distinctive and remarkably distasteful about me. Otherwise, why would someone choose to throw a full, glass handle of vodka down at me from a rooftop?

The weekend before last I was nearly killed dead—yes, “killed dead”—when a stranger threw a full gigantic bottle of booze down at me from a rooftop. [ . . . ] Continue »

It was a sad day, indeed, when I found out that being single in middle age is actually punishable not just by your mother’s eternal disappoint and society’s general scorn, but also by you slowly, but surely (2 to 3 to 6 times as surely), losing your fucking mind.

Death does not particularly scare me. (What’s up, Reincarnation?! You are totally the B.P.E. Best Plan Ever.) [ . . . ] Continue »