McSweeny’s has, for a number of years, run an annual column contest where they ask for entrants to provide a short description of their column, as well as an example of said column. I entered with what I described as a (semi-autobiographical) column written in vaguely chronological time-space that studies a specimen who moves to The City, fails wildly at The Big Thing, and then goes quietly crazy. Every few columns would be exist in list style alternated with a detailed “Dear Diary” entry focused on one point.
Diary of an Art School Dropout Who’s Still Living In New York For Some Godforsaken Reason
When did my Saturday nights turn into getting tipsy with a fifty year old woman and singing Disney songs to my cats?
There is a grown man reading a children’s book about ponies on the subway. Also, directly across from me, an overweight Yankees fan with a rather unfortunate hole in his jeans.
Dear homeless man folding laundry on the steps of P.S. 138, no I am not your wife. Please stop yelling at me.
Four men and a lesbian in a Boy Scout uniform proposed to me tonight.
Worst pickup lines I’ve heard this week:
“’Come help me pick out a raccoon skull.”
“I want you to have my abortion.”
‘311 operator, I’d like to make a noise complaint.’
Make the ice cream trucks stop.
Please, please, please. Make them stop.
If I were my keys, and my wallet, and my pants, and my dignity, where would I be?
Today I woke up. First victory. Made it to work on time. Second victory. Faked sick and left work to come home and “do art.” And by “do art” I mean stare intently at a blank canvas for five hours and come up with nothing. Proceeded to eat only one half of a pint of ice cream. Third victory.
I just remembered that I forgot to join the roller derby.
Today I saw the cutest, dirtiest little rat scurrying down the middle of the subway tracks carrying a berry or piece of bread or human finger, or something.
1. In which the author rides the Staten Island Ferry to Staten Island, gets off and gets a sandwich.
2. In which the author finds a drawerful of fingernails in the desk of her temp job.
3. In which the author’s bodega has goat’s milk, soy milk, 1%, 2%, hemp milk, almond milk, some lady’s breast milk, but no whole milk or Oreos so obviously she breaks down because this, this is the final straw. Soy milk — really? It is truly the most offensive of all the milks.
You can read about the those who entered the contest and who actually won, here.