the happy peasant
Abilene, my temptress. Every time I have something to go home to, I find myself going home to you instead. You are so warm, inviting. There are so few bars that I feel uninhibited going into alone – and you, Abilene, are one of them. After a long day, I
Right now, I’m sitting at Black Sheep, drinking a surprisingly decent three-dollar glass of wine while five other two-person groups/couples (still trying to figure out if the two girls sitting across the bar are lesbians) talk quietly, and/or watch sports going on somewhere behind me. My friend is sitting next to me, behind
There’s something delightfully awkward about mixing bars and literature, as I learned from last week’s event— the reading at Franklin Park by Electric Literature authors. Upon walking into the bar – which was surprisingly packed and infused with that certain wild, uncoordinated energy – I looked at the little table and mic where the
To sustain any healthy relationship you have to pump love, commitment and money – lots of fucking money. I incessantly go beyond my means when it comes to dating, which is fine, when it’s just dating. But when the warm bowels of a relationship come calling, there’s no way around
Botanica is a safe haven. There’s no better way to describe it. It sits like a bomb shelter on the south side of smoky Houston street, two blocks away from the undulating sea of Soho shoppers and opposite the building-size advertisements that pollute the north side of the street. After
A brand new collection of Broke-Ass Stuart's writing made up of some of his most famous pieces and new things never before published.
There are goddamn sandwiches everywhere in NYC. Each bodega has their own interpretation of what a sandwich is. My bodega seems to think a sandwich is slimy meat with shredded lettuce that dissolves into rusty water, and I’m pretty sure the bodega across the street uses the deli cabinet to hide drugs.
I know you’re probably having your third serving of ramen this week and laughing at the title of this article because your broke-ass and “museum membership” don’t belong in the same goddamn sentence. I thought the same thing. My friend was like, “oh, I’m a member” and I wanted to slap