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.