How Broke Bitches Find Love – Valentine’s Special

Kneejerk Answer: They don’t, because no one wants to marry a broke bitch, much less sire sons with them.  (What is the converse of: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife”?) Still broke, and bitter, in case you were wondering.

Let me just throw out on public record, here: I did NOT come to New York City to find love. I came here to get UN-broke, and—on the wider stretch of my imagination—live the Jigga Man lifestyle as an agent-slash-athlete-babysitter at Roc Nation Sports (THE DREAM).

This is a blog post that I’ve wanted to write for a while now. I’ve been wanting to write—period—for a while now, actually. But what’s prevented me from blogging is the very reason that motivates me now: one of my new friends in New York (who is, regrettably, an uncompromising Chelsea fan *grimace*) told me, “New York is like the mistress to any relationship [so it’s ill-advised to come here in a relationship].” Well, ya don ho, you make me feel like I’m on VH1’s Love & Hip Hop; it’s expensive to keep you.

I bring this topic up now, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, because 1) I finally have some free time at work where I’m not up to my eyeballs in coding I’ve never had the formal training to administer, and 2) the universe has been giving me signs to do so (“blog about meeeee,” the wind whispers).

Since being in New York, I’ve encountered: an emotionally unavailable/borderline sociopathic Naval officer; a 50+ year-old skeezy lawyer (whose office is on my floor) with eyes that don’t look the same direction yet manage to scan me up and down in unison; a barista at my local caffeine crackhouse who stalks me on Instagram; my new Hasid landlord who’s flirty but would never for religious reasons; a local drunk architect at the local watering hole in the neighborhood of my current sublet (who let me read his diary, so long as I left my number in it—2Chainz No Lie); bartender at same watering hole who used the excuse of aforementioned drunkard to pick me up with “Look, if any guy tries to hassle you again, just say that you’re my girlfriend…honey”; a Puerto Rican ex-convict who trolled me on Facebook thanks to my friend’s recommendation (‘encountered’ via word of mouth); and the young worker on my recently refurbished new apartment, who commented that I “look good for a Vietnamese”. Apparently, because his baby mama is half-Korean, half-Japanese, he is the central authority on the attractiveness of the Asian races. Then he came within a foot of my face to show me slutty Instagram photos of her, you know, to show me the resemblance. “You look nice, too.”

The future is bright for me. Full of prospects.

(Why is everyone compelled to ask me what kind of Asian I am? My other landlord: “You’re Vietnamese? Like, what the fuck is that?”)

But, here in New York, I’m not alone. More people I’ve met here than anywhere else in the contiguous United States are on OKCupid, or Tinder, or Grouper. Why? Because, romance? Ain’t nobody got time fuh’dat! Though I am pridefully opposed to the use of any such sites or apps (and also, to be honest, too insecure), the alternative is also pretty bleak given the fact that I seem to be a magnet for sociopaths and over-40s addicted to Hello Kitty (clearly). So, somewhat wedged between a rock and a hard place on that front! (Read hilariously sad—and short—article about dating in 2014 here)

For a sliver of consolation—albeit imaginary—I’ve come to worshipping beautiful, unattainable people, a tragic habit that my sister does not fail to illuminate like the Batman symbol at the expense of my fragile psychological state. She sends me pins in the middle of the night like follows:

Check!

And after I met David Beckham, an experience which already made me feel like this:

IMG_6607 sloth

She sent me this:

LOVEME

The flipside to being passionately committed to someone who doesn’t know you exist is that the romance is a bit … one-sided. Orlando Bloom, dost thouest know that mine heart was obliterated when thouest sleazed on mine friend at a rave in Mexico over New Year’s? Nope. Of course not. Ungrateful ass.

Hope everyone has a great Valentine’s Day.

4 thoughts on “How Broke Bitches Find Love – Valentine’s Special

  1. No idea how I got here. Possibly looking at reactions to the Olympic lady’s racist tweet reactions on twitter … And somehow here. Which led to reading and enjoying your posts. Guess I’ll become a reader. 🙂

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