Hungry, Lazy, Lonely, My favorites


I wrote this while digesting Halal.


I just wanted Halal. I was done tutoring and now I wanted Halal. I don’t love Halal – I just crave it. It’s one of those foods that I never want until I want it and then there is nothing else that I can think about/desire.

My stomach feels like a man is yawning and stretching inside it despite my stomach being far too small to hold a man.

There weren’t any Halal carts in sight when I left the apartment where I was tutoring. He didn’t need my help. By “he” I mean my student. Sure, I taught him extra info and I think my weekly visits push him in a direction academically that is positive. He loves me though. He said it. He said: “I love you.” I thought :”I want Halal from a pushcart.” He said: “Can we be roommates?” I thought: “I’m gonna get both sauces.” He said: “Can we be best friends?” I thought: “What if I could mix chicken and falafel!” He said: “I’m 14… that means I’m legal… in… Cambodia.” I thought: “I should have been listening to this conversation.”

I’ve been propositioned for sex by lots of older men. Never one younger. Never a teenager. Never one who was “Joking.”

This came after he asked if I had a girlfriend. A question I always answer with hesitation and self-disgust because I’m never quite sure how to define my relationships and that inability fills me with shame. He took my hesitation as an indication that I preferred sex with men.

My heart is trying to depart my body by burning its way through my skin. This sentence is a physical not metaphorical sensation. I just ate something out of styrofoam.

I had walked six blocks with no sign of Halal. My method of taking whatever street had green lights assuming that the fact that I was in Manhattan would be enough to mean I ran into Halal was not working out. The smells of Dunkin Donuts, Subway, and other indoor eating establishments filled with digestive tract ruining food products were tempting but could not distract me from my intended meal of day old chicken, week old lettuce, prehistoric onion and rice – yellow from stagnation – covered in sauces white and red.

I think my skin wants to melt off, but I’m not going to let it.

He told me a couple of weeks ago that all the girls in his class were “too flat” for him to date. I think he meant in the crotchal region. He doesn’t know that that was what he meant yet.

Each brightly colored street was simply a mirage of mean, rice and sauce that only provided disappointment and stomach grumbling. Until one. One street had the thing I wanted. In the form of two carts offering similar options. But different. In the form of a decision. Fuck. I hate my lfie.

My hair is greasier. I don’t know how it’s that instant, but my forehead seems slimy.

I picked the one across the street because I wanted to continue crossing streets with green lights. It took 40 seconds to make my food! How exciting! Now I had to find a subway station. It didn’t matter witch one, I just wanted to sit down and eat my new meal while it was hot. 5 blocks and 10 halal carts later that seemed less plausible. My stomach is mad at me for its lack of food filling. My brain is mad at me because I refused to use it in finding the closest halal cart to the subway. And I am mad at me for caring so much about stale rice and meat.

My brain is less functional than usual – I think filled with grease.

Then I realized the problem with my plan: Rush Hour. I crammed my self into an R-train feeling self conscious about the cumbersomeness of my styrofoam box of food product as I danced around a bike and a dog that needed to travel during rush hour.

Fuck it.

I ate it. On the subway.. The red and white sauce dripping of the ends of my mustache, my esophagus filling with discomfort, thoughts of a 14 year old closeted boy wanting to discover his sexuality stuffing my head and I was _______.

This is a mad lib and you get to fill in the emotion.

Hungry, Lazy, Nostalgia

Shit Works Out For the Best

A week ago I pulled each coat out of my closet stuck my hands into the pockets and scrounged for change. I needed it to buy cheese and tortillas which I needed for quesidillas which I needed for nourishment.

The last time I had worn these coats was in the fall when I had enough money that change coming my way was a cause for dismissal instead of rejoicing – coins were a thing I deposited in my pockets as opposed to my bank. Now my bank account had such little money deposited in it that the $4.63 that I found in the depth of the folds of cloth that hung from my clothes would have to feed  me.

I don’t want to be rich. But I don’t want to be dig-for-change-poor anymore. I also don’t want another job. I know that with a little more work, I could afford to live comfortably. By comfortably I mean with snacks.

Snacks to me are all I ever hope for. They are the ultimate luxury. Luxury is some that that you use not because you need to but because you want to. And the only thing I ever want when I need nothing is food. Salty, addictive, crunchy food.

But I can’t afford snacks.

I can’t afford to have a pantry full of chips and crackers to choose from when I’m bored.

Growing up, my basement was our pantry, and it was stocked like a grocery store’s dumpster. This was because my parents owned a grocery store that sold a small range of food from Kettle Chips to Fruit Leather. All food that had expiration dates despite not really expiring. All these dates were before the date that I ate the food, but I had so many snacks. I lived the most luxurious life I could possibly live, and I wish to do that again, but in order to do that I would need about an extra $100/week for snacks and (why not) beer. This would involve working about one more day a week instead of pretending I’m writing while watching Hulu.

This risk reward problem was really frustrating.

I say “was” because my parents have shut down the health food store, and are sending me boxes and boxes of food hat they never got to sell. I have my weight in snacks against the wall of my apartment.

I’m living in luxury while working 16 hrs/week.

I love me.

Hungry, Lazy


I think I forgot to eat the right amount today.

This is my eating disorder: forgetfulness mixed with laziness. Sometimes I forget to eat. Sometimes I forget to stop eating. I did both today.

Leaving the apartment, I went armed with a bag of mixed pirate’s booty, which are packing peanuts disguised as snacks by old Dorito powder. I planned on eating some of the bag on the subway to go with my slice of pizza. Since I forgot a pen though, writing wasn’t an option and eating became the only way to occupy myself.

Full on styrofoam and sour cream and onion dust, I contended myself through two therapy sessions for teens masquerading as tutoring appointments. I was hungry when I got home but I needed to work on my upcoming show, so I opted for a beer and my roommate’s saltines to hold me over until I could make dinner.

Dinner got distracted by cool dance moves with too much plot and too little acting abilities and I just ate some day old hazelnut chocolate mousse.

I think that’s all I did today… I mean, ate today.

Hungry, Lazy


I’ve been wearing those stupid athletic shorts forever. They feel comfy. I feel comfy.

Comfy is such a great word – it invokes eating Annie’s Mac’n’cheese off of my stomach. It invokes leaving my penis in a vagina without thrusting. Comfy invokes making a fort out of pillows and then ODing inside of it.

To me comfy can mean lots of different things, it’s just a matter of finding the comfy in it. It’s a matter of finding the way you can feel like everyone is probably judging you for your decisions, but they are wrong because despite how you may have assaulted societal demands of you, you stubbornly stand by your decision because it makes you feel good. It is the ultimate form of laziness, indignance, and self-love. It is everything I stand for.

Couches with indentations from years of sleeping on it because your bed seemed one too many flights of stairs away (aka: one flight of stairs) are comfy. Here I sit in one of those couches with my comfy athletic shorts that have been worn for weeks without wash and my life is good. I’m gonna go buy Annie’s Mac’n’Cheese and pour it all over my stomach – I’m going to eat a comfortable salad of chest pubes and cheddar cheese and small pasta shells.

Attention Whoring, Hungry, Lazy

I’m Gonna Do

I should probably talk about the fact that I moved into a new apartment with a roof.I’m not gonna.

I should probably talk about my pathetic failure at the Moth GrandSLAM. (I say that here because I feel like I will be a big enough jackass in the rest of this post to make sure that you don’t feel bad for me)

I’m not gonna.

I should probably talk about the fact that my ex-roommate is still throwing glass on the kitchen floor and stealing my toiletries.

I’m not gonna.

I should probably be writing an article for the Park Slope Reader about storytelling.

I’m not gonna.

I’m gonna talk about how this pasta I’m eating right now is really spicy. I got the spicy pasta for my 3pm breakfast because this was the only place that had wifi and an outlet for my constantly dying battery and my eye is immediately drawn to menu items described as spicy. I consider myself the cookie monster of spicy pasta dishes, like if I were to have a saying, I think it might be: “Spicy pasta is an all the time food.” I must obviously consider myself incorrectly because spicy pasta is not a breakfast food.

I need to begin focusing on different things. Just because a menu offers something with tropical fruit, curry and bacon doesn’t mean I should get it. Just because something offers multiple dipping sauces doesn’t mean I should get it. Just because something says spicy doesn’t mean it’s breakfast. It means it’s not breakfast. How many spicy cereals are there?

I don’t agree with anything I just said. I just tuned out for a couple minutes imagining how great jalapeño granola with a side of mango, curry, bacon pirogies with chipotle honey mustard sauce would be.

I know I should focus on different things. I know I probably should move to an apartment just for the view from the roof. I know that when I tell a story at the GrandSLAm I shouldn’t focus on trying to experiment with different styles of storytelling. I know that I should talk to my roommate and try to get back those cookies he stole from me. I know that I should write productive articles that advertise my shows instead of blogging about my inability to write.

I’m not gonna.

Hungry, Socialism


I enter nearly every bodega nowadays. It’s because it’s 100 degrees nowadays. It’s because bodegas are filled with cold drinks nowadays. It’s because I like fun drinks.

When I was in college, one “event” we used to do would be to “go get fun drinks.” This involved trips to the Tea Garden or SA (bodega of the midwest) and having long staring sessions with coolers that had more colors than Joseph marching in a gay pride parade on Rainbow Road. I would finally decide on a bright color that had the most fruits listed in a row and take my first sip only to realize that I just got the same shitty sugar water I got last time with different packaging.

I got an orange Gatorade the other day. Who made that? That shit is worse than Cheeseburger Doritos. Take something that is somewhat necessary in this heat when I am constantly dehydrated and then give it a nice semen dripping out of asshole taste. Fuck the inventor of that flavor (Cheeseburger Doritos are bad by the way because they taste exactly like a cheeseburger made into a Dorito).

Why do I always make the wrong choice? Because there isn’t a good choice. All the good choices were taken away because they weren’t profitable. Fuck capitalism. It’s the reason we have so much shit food that makes me shit food. It makes wiping feel like some sort of chore because meals just exited my rectum. It makes me need to shower just to clean it up.

Hungry, Socialism


In middle school I loved Subway. It was the only chain restaurant that I was allowed to go to and I enjoyed the fuck out of it so much that it was incapable of an erection – it could no longer fuck, it makes sense, shut up. Subway was so good because it offered the opportunity to put whatever vegetables I wanted into the most amazing invention using sliced bread.

When I was in 7th grade they did away with the triangle cut. The triangle cut was the way Subway operated. They cut a triangle out of the bread, put all the ingredients in the new hole and then put the bread back on top for you to eat or discard or eat and discard. They moved to a method where they boringly sliced through the middle.

This is when I first realized that I hated capitalism.

It didn’t matter how many sauces they added to their menu – how many condiments I got to choose from, it mattered that they had resorted to a much worse method of sandwich making because it was cheaper, it was easier, and it was cheaper. Cheap. Fuck cheap. I would pay an extra dollar for a triangle cut. I want a good sandwich, but this wasn’t about what I wanted. This was about what they wanted – the ungrateful, stupid public. Fuck the public. If you like the way you make a sandwich, make it that way.

I had Subway yesterday and I liked it, but it would have been better with a triangle cut. I try to not eat as subway as often as possible, I used to try to eat at subway as often as possible.

Horny, Hungry, Lazy, Lonely

Saturday Night!!

You know you’ve hit a new low when making a peanut butter sandwich seems like too much work despite the fact that you forgot to eat dinner.

It was that crunchy organic shit though. The shit that doesn’t come premixed. The shit with the oil floating on top just forcing you to make churning one more task in your already arduous day. Plus it has that plastic sealing. That sealing that I’m gonna need a knife to open, though it is the same knife that I will use to do my churning.

I did it though. I broke seals, churned, spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, and put the other piece of bread back because I realized I could just fold the one I had already peanut-buttered and doing double the work seemed like, well, a lot of work. Then I had to wash the knife. Ugh. My life is getting too difficult.

It has been well documented about how much I love Beyonce and Lady Gaga and hate my penis. I’m too lazy to say something new about them, but felt a need to say something and figured I could go back to my old standbys in writing even if only through link/reference.

My pants are not as good of napkins as I wanted them to be and the oil that leaked out of my sandwich and onto my hand because I didn’t churn well enough is now creating stains that look like I’ve done something fun with my Saturday night. That’s right. I am now saying that I could improve my Saturday night by getting into a thumb plus-four-other-fingers war with my penis, but my roommate has some big law school paper due, so he’s still yelling at the furniture.

Hungry, Lazy

The Diary of the Double Down

May 4th – 6:30pm – Pretension is the art of pretending that the new Double Down sandwich from KFC doesn’t sound delicious. I’m not pretentious. I just waited 30 minutes for a Double Down and am currently eating the shit out of it. I also refuse to eat oranges or apples that aren’t organic. I’m still not pretentious.

May 4th – 6:48pm – The Double Down doesn’t come with the paper holder that it shows it with in the commercial. The crispy chicken skin comes off on my skin.

May 4th – 8:10pm – The shit I just took smelled awful. I went to a local restaurant to do my business because I was on my way home and now I feel as though I’ve committed an act of terrorism to the people of Brooklyn. It smelled like a baby had died a week ago by being smothered to death with its own diaper. I left my ipod in my ears to distract myself from the smells and sounds of the shit that slid out way too easily from my rectum. Regrets by Ben Folds was playing.

May 4th – 11:15pm – I’m tired. I think my teeth are tired. Can teeth feel tired? Mine do.

May 5th – 1:18am – I don’t have to wake up tomorrow, so I’m awake and typing. I want to go to sleep but I want to be awake when whatever is molesting the insides of my stomach finally bursts through. I tried to take another shit, but all that came out were gusts of sulfur wind that sounded like a cave being blown into. I still wiped just to be safe.

May 5th – 2:03am – I laughed at something I watched on Hulu and a little salty vomit found it’s way onto my tongue.

May 5th – 8:32am – I woke up to pee to find myself in an accidental dutch oven.

May 5th – 10:28am – I’m awake and my face feels greasy. My shoulder hurts and I keep thinking that my burps are going to alleviate the pain in my stomach but they don’t. I want to poop, but it feels like my intestines are leaking into my kidneys and the poop is having one of those parties you see in commercials where they anthropomorphize things that you put in your body like food and alcohol and show them having a party so that you are annoyed with the things you’ve put in your body and then their product flies down your esophagus in a super-cape and its anthropomorphic being saves the day. I need something that is anthropomorphic and good. This evil shit is partying too hard in my kidneys.

May 5th – 1:03 pm – FINALLY! It took another couple of handfuls of bran cereal to force out the rest of that chicken skin that was lining all of my inner body parts. I’ve been twitching all day. I’m gonna go listen to all the songs I can find with regret in the title. I’m going to stick to the Famous Bowls. That way I can still pretend I’m not pretentious.

Hungry, Lazy

Food Similes

I have a wall of menus. I don’t have any other decoration of my room. I have a wall with a large map of Brooklyn and menus from local restaurants. Is it because I like food? Sure. Is it because I am constantly thinking about where my next meal will come from and what it will consist of? Yes. Is it because I use them to order from? Absolutely not. They are simply menus, meant to tantalize me, meant to excite me, meant to make me feel like there is good in the world.

I never understood window shopping, and I grew up in a tourist town that’s economy is kept afloat by window shoppers who forgot they were only supposed to be window shopping, but food is something I window shop for constantly. I love living in Brooklyn because everybody puts their menu out on the street and I can walk up and peruse the appetizers and talk to myself about how when I have money I will go there to eat lunch. People need to accept this as a valid form of window shopping. I want to live in a world where I can walk into a restaurant get a feel for the ambiance, maybe sit in a chair or booth, look at what other people are eating, and leave without eating a thing. We do that at clothes stores all the time. Well, I don’t, but others do. Let me have my food.

Sometimes I just walk up to my wall and read the menus I’ve read a million times before like it’s my favorite children’s fantasy book that reminds me of how innocent and vulnerable I was when I was reading and falling for fantasy. Speaking of similes, food provides excellent material for similes, so I’m going to pick out random items from my wall of cheap food and create similes that use them.

Okay, my wall is on the other side of the room, so I’m going to watch some Hulu and then I’ll get to this project.

I’m back, The Marriage Ref isn’t very funny.

White people in cultural organizations are like curried cauliflower wraps with chickpeas, brown rice, and mango chutney. They are obviously trying to be exotic and do genuinely enjoy the culture the are appropriating, but they are white and will never get away from the Whole Foods/Yuppie vegetable and rice combo of cauliflower and brown rice.

Going on an internet blind date with someone who you really hit it off with is like a quinoa salad with corn, black beans, tomatoes and corn tortilla strips with avacado dressing. Every piece of it is great and exciting, but in the back of your mind you know this is still quinoa which has a disturbing texture and aftertaste that makes your self-esteem lower because no one else has to resort to quinoa to find love.

Your uncle’s new fiancée is like housemade pastrami spiced brisket and leyden with housemade sauerkraut, arugula, tomato, onion, grainy mustard. She seems to be getting the idea of the family and trying to fit in, but she keeps putting her weird touches in that make us all uncomfortable.

Being smacked in the balls lightly by a woman you want to sleep with is like a hot dog with peanut sauce, indonesian pickles, jalepenos on a challah roll. It’s confusing. You’re in pain and angry, but she didn’t know what she did, and her hand was close to your penis so that’s good, right? No, probably not, it’s still a malicious act, though not intentionally malicious, so like what’s the harm? Well, my balls hurt so that’s harmful, but I can’t get mad. Fuck it, I’ll just get whiny. That’s the path this hot dog takes – it’s a hot dog so it’s sort of New Yorky and want’s to discuss and talk about shit, then the anger increases as the spices to – first Indian food, then Indonesian, then Mexican (spicier and spicier), then it ends with challah – aka Jewishy – aka whiny.

Covering for someone at work who works the night shift when you usually work the day shift is like sauteed seitan steak in onions, veggie chorizo, brown rice, black beans, arepa con queso, madro and avacado. You really have no idea what to expect, but the way they describe it alternately sounds like it’s much more fun than what you usually do, and terrible, but you assume that’s just because people like complaining about their job. It still fills you with trepidation though.