It was only 8:05 in the morning and someone standing near me was giving off an aroma of fried food. Dazed and somewhat awake, staring out into the subway tracks on the lookout for sewer rats (my usual routine), I stood waiting for the second train of my morning commute. From my peripherals, I could see the man next to me was the culprit for this fried food aroma, as he held on to a small bag from Chick-Fil-A. That same hand holding his unhealthy but I’m quite sure delicious breakfast featured a loose button, holding on by a thread (literally), from the sleeve of his tan pea coat.
"If tomorrow, women woke up and decided they really liked their bodies, just think how many industries would go out of business."—Gail Dines
Once upon a time, I met up with a tall, dark, and handsome (like, always) dude who, for the sake of privacy, I'll name Joe (which is also easier to type as we go along). Joe and I had been talking for about two weeks before meeting up. Yes, we met on Tinder. I thought something was wrong with me when I found myself downloading and deleting the app more often than I replace my Glade Plug-Ins, but I've come to find out that EVERYONE in NYC does the same thing. Whatever. Joe was a lot more breathtaking in person (they always are, girls). He was easy on the eyes and made you feel at home when he said your name.