I Judge You By Your After Party

What I imagine all creative high-society classmen to look like.

What a broke bitch is doing involved in highbrow anything is a murder mystery in the making.

My new-awesome (words to be read in swift succession) Danish roommate and I went to the Brooklyn Book Festival this afternoon, where she overheard two young, creative intellectuals talking about how “New York is dead” and the next river bend for the effective ‘children of the revolution’ is Detroit (which could very well be true: my very-own Detroit Dan once told me that the first verses of Nicki Minaj’s Anaconda “put Detroit on the map!”). “They were the perfect parody of themselves,” she said, which is terrifying because they were serious. We got onto the conversation of how creatives and intellectuals have social cliques. Some friends of hers back home are part of some avant-garde poetry and fiction scene in Copenhagen. “They have their own way of talking, their own language… it’s really inaccessible… So you just know that their parties suck.”

And thus the birth of an idea, a new frontier for The Broke Bitch: party-crashing highbrow artsy NYC events. While we weaved through the stalls at the festival, we feigned interest in multitudinous literary reviews—physical works of art themselves—just to grab that little leaflet with information on a $450-a-head gala, with an after-party for considerably cheaper. Then there was the ultra-niche creative magazine that was painfully not our thing… but they were having an upcoming release party, so we lingered a bit longer to learn more. In total, we must’ve signed up for some 20 mailing lists in the hopes of collecting a string of cultural invites (hopefully) involving an open bar. Ballin’ on a budget, s’all I’m tryna do.

Meanwhile, at an open-air café where she and I decided to park for the late afternoon (in a desperate attempt to work), some hefty old perv with his frü-frü little dog warned us of a rapist on the loose in our neighborhood, you know, as a conversation piece.

Next locale we venture into, a rat leisurely meanders from somewhere behind the furnishings to the backyard patio for a smoke break, and everyone’s okay with it.
My roommate: “He just walked outside!”
Me: “Did he walk or did he scurry?”
My roommate: “No, he walked. He did not give a shit!”

Brooklyn, baby.

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