The City Through Everyone’s Beds
in which i sleep with the entire city despite having officially aged out of being an ingenue. he kissed me and it felt like a substack blurb.
back in new york, i’m on what can only be described as a “two-week bender.” doing everything and everyone. i’m living off of everyone’s drink tickets. everyone’s list spots. everyone’s couches. never waking up in the same bed for more than three days in a row. i speed run sleeping with and through the entire city. eight beds in three boroughs in fourteen days.
last night was a scene report. my body hosts the latest cloutbomb.
it’s dangerous when writers sleep with each other. we end up on the front of page six. what’s the difference between the tabloids and my blog? what’s life if not big content farm? we’re not even lol-cows. we’re lol-livestock.
upon reuniting with the people i write about, i get jokingly (not jokingly) scolded for not redacting enough. if i redact anything it’s because i love you. if i leave anything in it’s because i love you. if i fictionalize anything it’s because i wasn’t sober enough to remember.
april 9: fuck everyone who said i’d never go above 14th. i’m staying on carly’s couch on the upper west side. i can only spend an hour at hers — im on the flyer for page’s reading tonight. im such an artist — i only have time to drop my bag and write a poem. im out the door by 5, my to-do list limited to buying cigarettes, posing for photos, and proving that im still a writer worth knowing. this is, as aristotle would say, the good life.
back in the east village, they’ve finished the construction from when i left. immediately i seek out poppers and a pack of camels. the first shop tries to charge me $20 for a bottle of rush. christ. look how they massacred my boy. i curse inflation and settle for $13. alex hall takes my portrait for her book, which contains portraits of Downtown Artists, therefore legitimizing me as a Fellow Downtown Artist. if not an Artist, then at least a Writer. if neither of those, then someone hot or clout-adjacent enough to be worth photographing. we drink whiskey like important artists do.
page is late to dymphna’s because the L is down. i offer him poppers. he declines. “i have my own weird drugs,” he reassures.
“what?”
“kratom!”
a girl approaches me at the bar. “i remember you! you gave me poppers at fong’s!”
“i don’t remember that but it sounds like something i’d do.” i’m in two glasses of whiskey and two shots of vodka. the only thing in my stomach is a smoothie from 10am. how i’m standing is beyond me.
“did you make tonight’s reading ‘emo night’ because of me?” i ask page. he smiles and nods.
“and was that you on rachelormontcellectuals making memes about me?” his shit-eating grin widens.
a certain shinji profile picture dms me that he’s at the reading. reveal yourself, egregore. “i was at the bar glancing at you lustfully,” he says. that doesn’t narrow it down. everyone’s glancing at me lustfully. everyone’s a suspect. peter and i squint at everyone on their phone. he examines the crowd like a noir movie detective except his cigar is a dab pen and he doesn’t call me ‘toots.’ optimistically, i only investigate guys i find attractive.
[internet persona] finds me in line for the bathroom and i conclude that i will not be going back to his van with him. “i told page that my buddy from substack would be here,” i say.
“are we buddies?” he asks me.
“why wouldn’t we be?”
“i thought we were enemies,” he admits. i realize that people actually take what i say seriously. don’t. i apologetically rush away when the bathroom opens up and piss for almost two minutes straight. when i get back, peter’s reading [internet persona]’s book with the scrutinizing eye of a rival male novelist. battle of the apostolic-named dudes who use copyrighted material on the cover of their books about cheating on asian girlfriends. this town isn’t big enough for two asian fetishists. (this is a lie. new york is great for asian fetishists. i’m writing in the wake of pilleater getting exposed for going on a wmaf rant at charlottesville. and peter doesn’t even have an asian fetish).
it’s my turn to read. “you know when people need no introduction?” asks page. oh shit. “the next reader needs no introduction… their first reading since being banished to ohio…” he introduces me how i imagine ceasar flickerman would. some girls scream. someone else shouts to call me “the kenny powers of the alt lit scene.” is it my “abrasive personality,” “inflammatory statements,” shameful hometown return, or awesome mullet? page grabs the mic. “everyone silence for royalty.” i feel like a douchebag but i like the praise. i preface my piece: “i just got four dollars from my substack… so drinks…… are not on me and i need to borrow fifteen dollars.” dympha’s cheers wildly for unemployment.
i read this, which is just a poem version of this. the room isn’t quiet for more than 10 seconds at a time. i remember how fun it is to read for an anti-woke crowd. page yells, “THAT BELT GOT STUDS!!!!” a pause. “that stud’s got belts,” he adds mischeviously. but i am not a stud. i am a bisexual filipino who loves the occasional mini skirt. “i slept with izzy capulong and all i got was an anecdote,” i read. “YES!” yells peter louder than anyone. if this were a novel, that would be foreshadowing.
the rest of the night is a blur of secondary locations. at midnight we leave dymphna’s for old flings, missing their open bar because we were busy getting free poet shots at dymphas. at 2 we leave flings for the library and pay for our beers until we substitute those with imprints of keys left on noses a la julian casablancas in “modern girls and old fashioned men.” i’m whisked to bushwick by valley, catie, and dylan. we break out the champagne, turn on the big lights, and don’t sleep til 6.
april 10: waking up on valley, catie, and dylan’s couch. i’m up before noon somehow. valley offers me a ride to the city. then the hangover hits. i used to not get hungover. i’m losing my edge. she stops at a deli and i shamefully ask for some advil. valley comes back with an electrolit, pack of ibuprofen, and a glowing halo behind her. this distinguishes us. for drinkers, your early 20s are about struggling with hangovers because you refuse to admit you’re old enough to get hungover. in your late 20s, you predict the hangover. it becomes as much a part of the night as the drinking itself. it’s beautiful. aging is a privilege, but now i can’t drink on an empty stomach.
valley runs her errands. i shit in the cadillac dealership. i don’t get back to the upper west side til 6:30. my day doesn’t actually start til 10pm, back in bushwick, where catie’s hosting karaoke at clara’s. i get a little filipino on the mic. “you were really singing up there,” says hudson. i burp in his face as a response. ashley shows up and i use the toilet after her without flushing. i pee in her pee. it’s intimate. “can i say we did that?” i ask.
“there’s nothing i do that’s off the record,” she says.
i planned on making it home by a sensible 1am. unfortunately by 2 i’m in an uber to clando’s. i do a shot and immediately excuse myself to vomit. miraculously i don’t. sat on the curb with tears in my eyes, i find a random magazine. it’s funny — i got my last mag gig because through drinking and reading poetry. alcohol brings me good things. back inside, a dude hands me his notebook and tells me to write something. i don’t remember what i say. ashley tells him it’s gonna be worth something. dese says i’m going to be famous. i just need to get back home.
april 11: waking up on carly’s couch. i spend the evening in midtown seeing tracy bonham, tamar kali, and kathleen hanna. i’m looking for the venue when i find a few girls with mullets. “are you guys in line for—”
“yeah,” they don’t need me to finish. something about me makes it obvious i’m there for the “women in punk” event.
inside, someone says, “i didn’t start masturbating til i was 18. i finally had an orgasm while reading a psychology of women book.” unfortunately, my masturbation material would set feminism back decades. i head downtown for the three different parties i planned on hitting, but it’s cold and rainy. i’m too sober to be at shinsen so i head home. this is the only sober night i’ll have for the next 2 weeks.
april 12: my second night in a row waking up on carly’s couch. i’m the picture of stability. imagine carly’s pov: a muffled NOOOO comes from the bathroom.
“period?” she yells from across the hallway, unphased.
“FUCK MY GAY CHUNGUS LIFE.”
“sorry dude.”
this sucks. i had so many people i wanted to sleep with while i was in town. and i’m not willing to have period sex. i can’t risk forming a soul tie like that. not with any of these people.
not peeing after sex is like having period sex. it leaves other peoples’ gunk in you too long to not have a psychic effect. you should pee after sex to prevent two things: utis and falling in love.
i fill out a few job applications, drink a smoothie, and eat a salad. the health is foreign to my body so im shitting a lot. thankfully, i’m on my way to market hotel for the suzy clue show where there’ll be plenty of opportunities to shorten my lifespan. it’s about balance. i’m in leather and the kind of eyeliner that leaves people surprised when i smile at them. the best kind of contrarianism is to be kind when people least expect it. balance.
i interviewed suzy clue a bit ago. she’d asked me not to use her real name. it’s odd substacking friends using their artist names — makes me feel parasocial. me and melody finally meet. at first we act like we know each other, but eventually reveal we only did that because we were both scared we’d already met and forgot. solidarity.
onstage, suzy whips her pink hair and shouts out everyone on their period. i fall in love with her a little. we all end up at declan’s around midnight. i call sarosh and tell him to come over. he’s already in bed so i call him bad words until he relents. i scare him and declan by standing on their ledge. drunk girls love elevated surfaces. drunk girls love edging suicidal ideations. but i don’t wanna traumatize anyone. not tonight. suddenly exhausted, i ditch the party for declan’s bed, lulled to sleep by sounds of sniffing on the other side of the door.
april 13: waking up in declan’s bed. i marvel at last night’s evidence left on the table. before i go, i turn and give declan the jackie taylor smile. i imagine him seeing me in slow motion and for the last time ever.
my day starts at 11pm when i leave for treasure club karaoke. the train doors end up directly in front of me — all i have to do is walk in a straight line. a good omen. caleb and i are meeting up tonight. my near-midnight eta disturbs him but he’s leaving the country tomorrow morning so it’s now or never. he asks me if any of his enemies will be there. none. just me.
at treasure club, a girl sings joan baez. “i kinda miss miss my ex,” she admits. we all boo. veronica sings ethel cain. this causes an entire group to leave.
caleb can’t find me. i don’t blame him. i’m drunk and in a ponytail. i finally spot him in the back. “MY OOMF!”
while we size each other up, someone approaches the table and asks, “are you izzy? i love your writing!” i take a perverse pride in being recognized in front other people. sometimes clout is the only thing hard work gets you. caleb shows me his calendar — he’d set a reminder for when i landed in the city. he says he was taken aback by my voice, calling it “surprisingly masculine” and “sexy.” i make a mental note never stop smoking cigarettes. i bring him over to the table and announce to catie, veronica, and dylan: “he’s another guy who found me off of substack!” caleb gets defensive, refusing to sound like a fan. “i found your writing and was like this is something. then i was like who the fuck is izzy capulong. the name sounded familiar so i looked you up and saw you dm’ed me.” he makes fun of me for deleting evidence from when i had, admittedly, tried to slide in 3 years ago. cue my spiel on why i unsend unanswered dms.
caleb casually alludes to wanting to sleep with me. i’m caught off guard. i’d already renounced male models — my stomach isn’t flat so i’m scared of being with someone who’s coworkers are exclusively thin, beautiful women. before i can question him, it’s my turn for karaoke. while i’m singing, caleb looks at me wide-eyed. i can’t tell if it’s because i’m drunk and sound like shit, or because i’m drunk and surprisingly good. after i’m done, i slide back into the booth. this time we sit a little closer.
caleb finds it important to tell me — of all the virginities he’s taken, he has yet to take an asian virginity. “sorry, i can’t help you with that.” i haven’t been a virgin since snapchat was popular. at 2, we all go to clockwork. whatever had been building comes to a head. suddenly i’m on his lap and we’re kissing in the back room. later, dylan will tell me that some random guy had been holding my hand while i sucked face with caleb. i don’t remember this. i don’t need to. we stumble to his apartment and i end up in various appropriated fabrics. his sheets, his t shirt, etc. in the morning i’ll find a small wound on my lip. caleb kisses hard and my lips are swollen and tender in a way that makes me realize he won’t have to ask me to write about him because i’d be compelled to do it anyway. caleb is most likely reading this. don’t let it get to your head.
april 14: i wake up in caleb’s bed, not wearing pants when his roommate walks in. i recognize him. he’s friends with jack, whose bed i’ve also been in. there are eskimo brothers everywhere for those with the mutuals to see.
caleb and i sit on his window ledge and dangle our legs over 5th avenue. he smokes while i suck on a lollipop. it’s peak indie kino. 2016 petra collins would’ve creamed her high-waisted jeans at the sight of us. “you guys look great!” shouts a guy from the street. but i have to go — caleb has to be at the airport in a few hours. i’m not even a block away from his door when i let him know he’s gonna end up in my substack.
“can you exaggerate the size and motion of my cock?”
“i’ll say you asked me to.”
i’m not meant to sleep alone. i sleep between two pillows because i hate when the bed feels big, so it’s sad whenever i leave someone’s bed. it doesn’t help that i’m on my period listening to 2008 katy perry when she was indie rock and not abuser pop. i should’ve worn cuter underwear.
i get back home by noon, brush my teeth, and submit a few more job applications. carly and i leave for the shop by 6:30. she’s punctual. she never hops the turnstile and can do a full face of makeup on the train. i watch everyone watch her. when we get to the shop, it is, to my surprise, not oomfchella. which is weird. because it’s the shop. me and lucas are unfamiliar with all the people thirsty to get photographed by matt. a few people greet me too familiarly for me to ask their names. risa tells me my absence left a hole in the city. i’m scared she’s only saying that because she needs something. lucas and i end up “working” “door” (making sure strangers don’t wander in off the street). after playing baseball with avery’s fireworks and plastic roaches, we end up at the magicia. having my thighs out makes the bartender generous and i get an insane shot that takes multiple sips to finish.
between alex and his friends, we’re all leather and fur and spikes and eyeliner. none of us have shoes that let our feet touch the ground. we look like we should be hanging out on the steps of search and destroy. instead we’re getting intense about coin flipping games. alex is the only one of us who doesn’t look emo. this makes him respectable enough to lead us to the next location. everyone piles into a car for gonzo’s and i ask if i should come. i would’ve understood if they said no, but they dont give me time to be understanding and tell me to get in the car.
we get to gonzo’s around midnight. cumulatively, i’ve spent weeks here, but it’s foreign with the lights on. alex rehearses while i teach everyone else how to do poppers. i still feel like i’m intruding, so i walk to the kfc where they used to know me. i’d come home as they were closing and they’d give me all the unsold chicken. they’ve kept me from going hungry on multiple occasions, but eventually i wanted to be skinny more than satisfied. i get my usual order for the first time in two years. i feel dirty. when i try to go home, the building punishes me for my gluttony by jamming the door and ignoring my electronic key. after body slamming the door for ten minutes, i call carly. at 2, i eat my kfc in darkness and shame, illuminated only by the light of youtube predator catches. this dumbass thinks he won a tesla.
april 15: waking up on carly’s couch, feeling soberish, large, and ashamed. carly’s roommate sees me awake at 7am. “you’re up early.”
“yeah. i’m really confused about it.”
a bit later, carly comes out. “you’re up?” again, i’m just as surprised as the both of you.
around 8pm i go to diego’s event. i should’ve gone to these kinds of things during undergrad — networking parties meant to introduce young broke creative types to old rich business types. not my style but i need a job (still do). i’m desperate (still am). i’m wearing fucking trousers (my butt looks good). i schmooze my brains out and i’m grateful to meet sasha — i don’t have to pretend to care about our conversation. i end up at treasure club not expecting to see anyone, but find veronica at the bar. one beer in and i’m lamenting masculinely about the job market. she comforts me by telling me i’m hot and a better writer than the waifish girls i compare myself to.
by 4am, i have almost 200+ blocks to travel. it would’ve been safer to uber, but i don’t have money to waste on safety. the train consists of homeless people, tired people, and party people. i’m sorta all three. a beautiful girl rests against her beautiful boyfriend and i cry, wondering why only awful men want me. i want what we had with someone who loves me. i want what we had with someone worth loving. everyone’s sober girlfriend. no one’s sober lover.
at their stop, the man looks at me, likely remembering when he was lonely and shameful. he pities me but feels relief to not be in my position. i don’t blame him. after my 8 hour night, i get into bed and feel a random cold chill. carly told me the apartment might be haunted by a sassy misandrist. as long as i’m not sleeping alone.
april 16: after waking up on carly’s couch for the last time, i’m back in pads’ spare room in bedstuy. but by 9 i’m back downtown, at mercury lounge for torture’s headliner. aidan greets me sentimentally: “what’s up dork.”
“what’s up twink.”
onstage, torture brings out her trumpet which makes someone yell in a very orgasmic way. someone else shouts at aidan, “that’s my bassist!” aidan laughs. “what the fuck do you mean? you’re my brother.”
bathed in an impossible halo, torture plays a song for her mom. i’m so lucky to be in front of her. i don’t cry at shows but tonight’s an exception. the camera flashes remind me that i can’t ugly cry right now, so i hold tight onto joan and gigi and remember to mew.
as the show picks back up, the onstage pile of coats devolves into a mass of leather and fur. after taping my shoes, we hit 2a for afters. for the second time, me and sid discuss a challengers recreation. matt has me and zach kiss him for a photo. “you know sid, for a guy with a girlfriend, you have a lot of photos that involve kissing other people.” (on sid’s birthday, three different men will post pictures of them kissing sid. they’ll all have girlfriends). around 3, me and torture get homoerotic over a cheese slice. i have to tell zach, “don’t kiss me yet. i have pizza in my mouth.” he raises an eyebrow at me — “yet?”
aidan has class in a few hours. something endearingly collegiate like statistics or business. i’m proud of him for thinking of his education. i used to leave the club at 4 and go to class at 9. impressive, but i didn’t make dean’s list — the only list to ever elude me. on my way out, i say goodbye to claire, who’s roommates with pads and remembers when i crashed at theirs in january. “see you at home,” i tell her. she laughs, “you probably won’t.” i don’t. i split a car with dylan who yells about leftism. back at pads’, i’ve been upgraded from air mattress to couch. if there were a class system for couchhoppers, i’d be at the top.
april 17: waking up on pads’ couch. my day starts at 10pm. it’s an easy, single location night — gonzo’s for damion’s party. he pours vodka in my mouth and i pocket some of his branded condoms. these come in handy later when i’m in bed with someone from the party. i overhear someone say, “it’s too dimes squarey in here.” they must feel vindicated when peter asks if damion’s the new harrison. i tell damion this. he laughs. “i’m not that famous.” but he’s glad.
everyone is naked and sweaty. more than usual. the people who aren’t naked are dressed how i normally dress. the literal one day i don’t wear a tie or pleated skirt, i end up at what dull dubs the “hot for teacher party.” but i actually dropped out of catholic school. every day i’d get in trouble for rolling my uniform skirt too short. yall are new to this i’m true to this. damion’s merch is plastered with “HORNY IS OK.” obviously, i’m a big advocate for horny-on-main. plus, in high school i worked at planned parenthood. coaches’ kids would meet me behind the bathrooms where i’d dap them up to slip some rubbers into their hands. “do you know how to use those?” i’d ask. “fuck off,” they’d reply. i was like otis from sex education. just as tragic.
we end up at 101. i put on more eyeliner so men don’t talk to ashley, nara, and i. i find dinner — a babybel wheel that’s obviously been sat on. it’s still in the wrapper — fair game. a girl carrying a tree branch calls me pretty. i tell her she’s like a breath of fresh air. incels found my tiktok and had been calling me mid for days. she introduces herself as caroline. matt introduces her as caroline calloway. “oh shit. you had that interview piece about crashing out of new york.” solidarity. on my way home, i see a couple kissing where my friends broke up. i run until my shoes feel fragile, turning a 20 minute walk into 10.
april 18: waking up on pads’ couch. for the first time since i got here, i’m purposefully out during the daytime. at the strand i spot peter. we’re both in blazers like we go to the same network tv boarding school. he says i look amazing in that disarmingly earnest voice with which he says everything is amazing. alex kazemi mocks how the chronically online find it “impossible to leave the groupchat.” peter and i look at each other in horror — the 100-person instagram polycule buzzing holes in our pockets. “so true,” we whisper in despair.
alex reproaches people who think they’re interesting for being nihilists or hedonists — “it’s the least interesting reaction you could have to the world.” i feel guilty, not yet knowing i’ll be out til 7am. i don’t think having hedonist tendencies makes me interesting, but it does gives me interesting things to write about. but someone says “writers aren’t authors.” i think of my newly-updated instagram bio. quotation marks around the word “writer” shielding me behind a layer of self-deprecation. no one can question my writing because no one can say i take myself seriously. unfortunately, the people with money don’t take me seriously either. maybe i need a novel. maybe i need a ballsack.
someone claims gen z doesn't gatekeep. but i’ve seen people try to gatekeep lorde and radiohead. i heard rioting in the streets when “normies” “infiltrated” substack. gen z likes to think they’re gatekeeping when really they just have individuality complexes about things that were popular before they were holes in their dads’ condoms.
matt, charlotte, and i stop at mcdonald’s. matt pays for our minecraft happy meals. he tells me not to worry about it. “hipster philanthropy,” he calls it. “the unemployed community thanks you.” we make it to gelso and grand for the afters / reading. it’s very whitman. very pfaff’s. are we bohemian? or are we just in little italy? lydia lunch hits on matt. caroline queens out with anna delvey. peter accidentally screams at kelly cutrone. and matty healy is revealed to be ½ of a boy-so-confusing style friendship. i already wrote about the night for document journal, but my scrapped titles summarize it well: “last night was a scene report.” “microliterati death match.” “the list will not save you and it’s your turn to write about it.” it might be my most namedrop-y piece to date. but what is event coverage if not pr’s cloutmax? what is life if not one big content farm? we end up as content farm produce. not just lolcows, but lol-livestock.
The night gets blurbed in Page Six. How underground can you really be if you’re in the tabloids? I imagine the simultaneous pride and shame that comes from masturbatorily calling yourself “subversive” only to end up on the front page of New York’s most popular gossip column. “Too cringe for X, too based for IG, just right for this party,” says Peter.
too cringe for a novel, too based for the tabloids, just right for everyone’s sober girlfriend.
outside, charlotte takes my picture under the little italy lights but i’m not drunk enough to act all i believe in unicorns whimsical for her. the moment ends when one of the construction guys yells, “five dollars for a kiss.” at selva, i spend half the time on lex’s lap egging on drunk guys to fight, the other half in the bathroom with pads and torture. isabel shows up and we spin around like girls. big day for once new york-based asians with variations of the same name. as people shove themselves in front of matt’s camera, nicho says, “the whole world is waiting to have their photo taken.” it’s easy to spot matt above his crowd of aspiring muses. between him and nick dove, it’s ironic that the easiest people to see are people who make it their business to see everyone else.
we end up at some bar down the street. at this point, it’s my fifth location (counting mcdonald’s). i watch boys kiss girls i wanted to kiss. at 4, torture and i are looking for a place that’s open, so we into lach’s bar to hang out with sarosh. my last night in january, torture had told me, “in a few years we’re gonna be untouchable.” fuck a few years. i can’t wait to be lydia lunch age with her. i lose one of my rings in the toilet while wiping my ass. i decide to leave at 7 when my notes app turns to light mode. i’m supposed to get interviewed by devin in like. five hours. right before i pass out, i tell her we might have to reschedule. she’ll see this text as she’s waking up.
april 19: waking up at 1 on pads’ couch, sniffing, i take a boy-sized shit not knowing what in my body could’ve produced solid material. nothing in me could’ve produced anything other than piss, vomit, or an OD. as soon as i’m up, i pack my purse with my jewelry, jacket, meds, and makeup. i have two interviews, a barbecue, the malice k show, and sid and jackson’s party. i won’t have time to go home and change so my nighttime outfit is coming with me. it’s the type of situation that necessitates that day-to-night look that millennials fantasized about needing.
around 3 i find devin. she wants to interview me about partying and my writer lifestyle so it’s good she finds me after a night out. there’s nothing more writerly than a bender. there’s more writerly than being hungry. devin gives me half of her sandwich. i feel like oliver twist. like carrie bradshaw if she got paid an actual writers’ wage — nothing. we walk to tompkins and sit where my friends and i would drink, skate, and freestyle. devin makes me feel special and asks better questions than i do.
what was supposed to be my second interview with mercer gets rescheduled because the savoia soundcheck is running late. i wonder why until i see lucas walking through the park. that’s why. pads’ friends’ barbecue is my only opportunity to eat today. we hop the fence on the roof to watch the sunset.
when i get to the malice k show, valley and tara look classy. i look like avril lavigne. the door guy notices the four locations’ worth of stamps on my wrist. matt calls tonight “music history in the making.” my last malice k show, alex shoved a mic down his pants and headbutt everyone in gonzos. now we’re sat like churchgoers. he’s got a cello. shit’s serious. next to me, a girl tells me she drove from philly. “malice is my messiah,” she breathes. alex prefaces his song, “beautiful people”: “this is for my day one’s.” no one knows i used to cry to this song back in 2022. my allergies make me rub all my eyeliner off — it looks like i’m crying but i don’t mind if people think i am. in the bathroom, i hopelessly petition for eye drops. suddenly three girls are in my face with various tubes. i love the girls’ bathroom.
it’s 11:30. my birthday’s in half an hour. sat behind some velvet ropes, i’m sober and lonely. i want to go downtown to sid and jackson’s party at nublu. last year, i celebrated my birthday getting dangerously drunk with sid. no one here wants to leave, so i make the commute by myself to try and avoid turning 23 on the train. i don’t make it. the car is crowded when the clock hits midnight and everyone has somebody to love except me. i’m wallowing until i see alex hall sat below me. she snaps me out of my melancholy and i save her from a bad date. at nublu, caroline, joan, nikita, and emilia absorb me into their circle of flailing limbs and whipping hair. they don’t even know it’s my birthday. they’re just those kinds of girls. sometimes i feel embarrassed telling people it’s my birthday because it feels i’m asking people to care about me. but i don’t feel any of that right now because i’m too busy being showered with love by the most beautiful people in the most beautiful city.
lucas wishes me a heartfelt happy birthday. i burp in his face to diffuse any sentimentality. when mercer and domenica show up, i drag aidan to them — “lucas says he’s the white version of you!” torture and bec show up and spin me around. drinks in hand on an elevated surface, emilia tells me, “the culture needs what you have to say.” i tell her i’m lucky to be her friend. looking over the heads of people who don’t know why we’re celebrating, i add, “i feel like gatsby.”
“because you’re looking for someone?” yeah. that too.
i thank sid for listing me, telling him i was sad because i turned 23 on the train by myself. “that doesn’t matter now,” he reassures me. “because you’re here.” he plays “time to pretend.” the soundtrack of tragic nostalgia. no longer in the youngest adult age range of 18-22, i’m too old to be someone’s inappropriately young girlfriend. i’ve aged out of ingenue status. i’ve aged out of prodigy. if i’m good, it’s not remarkable. my friends and i scream the lyrics because yeah, this is our decision to live fast and die young. we’re the models who’ll have children. we’re the models who’ll get divorced. i don’t doubt a few of us will suffer because of things we do now. but that’s a problem for 33.
at 2 am, [redacted] calls me a car and i text him on the way to his bed. he’s high and i’m drunk. he’s a painter and i’m a writer. he buzzes me in as soon as i’m at his stoop. i laugh and text him, “were u waiting by the door lol.”
he opens the door immediately. “so what if i was.”
april 20: i get woken up at 5:30am in [redacted]’s bed — he’s got a train to catch. he calls me a car home. i don’t even consider this waking up. it’s like falling asleep on the couch and sleepwalking to your bed. considering most of my nights haven’t ended until 7, this is light work. i make sure i’m wearing underwear and get in the uber with crust in my eyes. i sleep in pads’ spare bed with my headphones on because the fire alarm won’t stop beeping. at least i’m inside before sunrise.
i officially wake up at 3:45pm to reluctantly pay my student loans. the damage to my bank account is only mitigated by the fact that your birthday is the best day to be broke. matt tells me to come to tompkins so we can celebrate 4:20. i rush out unshowered, wearing last night’s clothes and last night’s eyeliner. i buy cheezits for breakfast, predicting i’ll be taking my meds with a whiteclaw in the park. i make it to the blanket exactly by 4:20, grateful to not spend another milestone time in transit. and i take my meds with a whiteclaw. when we’re all properly high, strangers sing to me. i remember the last time i was high and being sung to in a park — my 19th birthday, my friends and i sat on our boards by the arch and everyone took turns ollying over me. none of them ever hurt me but i wouldn’t have been mad if they did. we run into damion and everyone ends up in a tree. i’d make a joke about getting high but it’s low hanging fruit. i run into a girl i’d gone to high school with in cleveland. behind me i hear, “this is like a groupchat in real life.”
some guy asks me what i’ve been up to. “i’ve been on a two week bender.”
“are you ok?”
i don’t answer. no one’s ever shown concern about my habits — their worry was always inferred, silent, and tinged with admiration. i metabolize his concern into care. i’d do anything dangerous enough if it made people realize they loved me enough to want me to be safe.
around 5:30 we walk to poetry gallery. i run another cleveland girl who used to date the girl from the park. she goes by her full name now. i go by my nickname now. we used to share a backyard. our friendship happened between sliding glass doors — sometimes we’d knock on them, sometimes we’d yell at each other through them. she was my first friend and my frenemy. she’s here with david, who was once my best friend and roommate. new york and ohio collapse in on themselves.
catie swallows a sticker and we giggle too hard for such serious ambiance. in the concrete rick owens-style bathroom she presents me with her annotated sylvia plath. “i got my use out of it,” she says. her history is the most thoughtful gift i’ve ever gotten. around 8 we make our way to baby’s to catch the savoia set. i spent my last birthday with savoia. lucas had the audience sing to me until the cops came. catie and i make a beeline for the greenroom and take advantage of the fact that none of the bands want to eat their free tacos. at 10, we head to my party and i stick my head of valley’s car. when i was 17, abby and i stuck our heads out of maria’s sunroof while she drove us home. when she came back down, she sighed and laughed, “so that’s what being a teenager feels like.” i think the last thing she told me was that she’d pray for me.
it’s a quintuple threat at treasure club tonight. my birthday, isabel’s homecoming, lana themed karaoke night, easter, and 4.20. veronica serenades me with a karaoke track of “happy birthday mister president.” she admits her excitement to the fact that “we lowkey tiktok famous,” speaking in a head mix that shows her classical training. peter and caroline show up and i flip myself over the booth. caroline sticks her cocktail umbrella in my hair before i sing. catie and i scream to “back to basics” because yeah. you have been pretty stupid ever since you got famous. i go too hard and knock over veronica’s drink but she reassures me it’s fine — she doesn’t pay to drink here either. dan and ana bring me a knife — apparently they’d searched their house for “small goth things,” until they realized that i’m too broke to check a bag. ohio and new york collapse in on themselves again when i remember that the first matt i ever knew gifted me a rusty knife he found in the woods. my 16th birthday had passed while all my friends were on a school trip, so they sang and sent me a grainy video from the forest. abby told me, “we yelled ‘happy birthday izzy capulong’ across the lake and hoped it reached you.”
hannah comes up to me — “i’m assuming your full name is isabelle, right?” she presents me a guy holding a bouquet. i don’t recognize him. at first i fear that he’s one of my reply guys who came from my instagram stories, so i ask, “hey man what brings you here.”
“i’m… a friend…” he says slowly. “these are for isabel.”
it takes me a minute to realize he means ‘isabel with one L’ and not ‘isabelle as in my full name.’ makes sense. isabel’s the type of girl to get flowers at her party. on the floor, she swings her hair during her song. i’d bring her flowers too.
toward the end of the night i get sad for reasons that are too shameful to write about even in a confessional format. which says a lot for someone as shameless as me. it was a total party 4 u moment. i take inventory of what i have. lucas’s skipped meals in my mouth. sid, veronica, and lex’s drinks in my stomach. dana, torture, and isabel’s keys on my nose. caroline’s umbrella in my hair. catie’s sylvia plath in my bag. the image of the two of you in the furrow of my brow. your face in the bluest part of my heart.
we end up at clandos but leave when the bartender is mean to me despite knowing it’s my birthday. torn between crying and wanting to nuke the bar, dana, shorty, and i call a car and i play some devastating songs. i post on my close friends “EVIL WHITE MEN DIE EVIL WHITE MEN DIE EVIL WHITE MEN DIE” and a few hours later i see a notification about the pope. not what i meant. if you make me cry on my birthday you have a special place in hell and my poetry.
april 21: i wake up on pads’ couch, surprised and disappointed that i remember all of last night, falling one short of my “blacking out three birthdays in a row” goal. lucas comforts me and tells me i’m the best name-dropper poet he knows. “everyone else does it for clout but you do it out of love.” i think the first time i ever namedropped in a poem, it was him.
around 11pm, i’m scrolling my phone looking for comfort and / or somewhere to get drunk. when i’m about to get ready for bed, peter invites me to come smoke. i get to his around midnight and we have a conversation that, if public, would help his image. contrary to popular belief, peter doesn’t actually have an asian fetish. if he did, he would’ve written it more into sillyboy to make it more archetypal. i think it’s plenty archetypal. i think we’re plenty archetypal. i think brad troemel would make memes about us being together.
we sit on his floor mattress, sharing his weed and my smirnoff ice. it doesn’t even take a full episode of inventing anna before we’re pressed against each other, his hand on my hip, a polite hesitation in his closed fist instead of open palm. but he doesn’t need to be polite with me. we end up doing things people thought we’d already done. his face is big in my hands.
“this was months in the making, wasn’t it,” i say.
“i’m surprised this didn’t happen earlier,” he says.
honestly, i am too. peter and i get compared enough as it is. once after catie’s reading last summer, a girl came up to peter and i and told us we were the best readers. after i thanked her, she turned her back to me to ask peter how he writes like that. she might’ve only meant to compliment him but felt too awkward to call him The Best when Another Reader was right there. we do read with similar manic rhythms. we both use meme formats and make allusions to sex that are never earnest enough to be corny. i wonder if tonight will get referenced in one of his poems. i don’t doubt parts of my substack will end up on petervacksource. many things i write do.
i said it before and i’ll say it again: they should ban writers from sleeping with each other. all the writers in new york are in a secret race to see who can write about whose private parts first. imagine what aftercare looks like for a couple of new york poets: you both roll over, whip out the notes app, and type with your backs to each other. for some people, sleeping together only means sleeping next to each other. i feel bad for them.
april 22: i wake up in peter’s bed. i’m scared my breath reeks but he proves me wrong and we clash our unbrushed teeth. i get going at a reasonable 11am. tonight i’m reading at torture’s residency. i invite peter, hoping to see him before i leave, but at his doorstep i hug him like i won’t. it’s my last day in the city.
it’s hot but my shirt’s too sheer for daytime, so i walk with my jacket off and hugged to my chest. i can’t have my tits out this early but my posture makes me seem demure and blushing. my music’s left off perfectly at the start of the second verse of “one of the boys” by katy perry. she feels girlishly smug that boys are finally noticing her. i make a beeline for the notes app.
i get back to pads’ to shower and write. tonight’ll be a totally different crowd than the dymphna’s reading, so i can read that same poem (with some added lines). i get to baker falls around 7. van aura farms dressed like bob dylan. a guy jokingly scolds me for looking at his butt. we do-si-do and act very lively with the country soundtrack. it’s the type of night that makes me think, yeah, they’re gonna write about this when the time comes.
when torture announces me, she lightly chastizes me for my not-anonymous-enough substack. when i’m at the mic, someone yells, “WE LOVE OHIO!”
“no we don’t,” i scoff, almost too incredulously for it to have sounded like a joke. i scare myself with how mean i sound. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to. joan tells me her dad is here. oh god. the first word in my poem is “pussy." your dad should NOT be here!
i read my piece with a moscow mule in hand. i’d been a little worried that it was too edgy for non anti-woke crowd who frequents capital R Readings, but thankfully they appreciate my shamelessness. a guy shoves a warm cookie in my hands, saying, “everyone upstairs was very moved.” another guy who calls himself “blind tim” comes up to me and whispers in my ear, “you’re not paying for a drink the rest of the night.” he loved my poem so much he added me to his tab. thanks blind tim. joan’s dad comes up to me while i’m smoking. he laughs and says, “you have a good spirit.” fuck yeah. my trip has been bookended by two very successful poetry readings. everyone in new york is thinking about sleeping with me — half of them scared because they know i might write about it, the other half excited for that same reason. he kissed me and it felt like a substack blurb.
torture prefaces her set: “if you’re not gonna support artists, support me.” she looks at me when she sings, “how long do you think you’ll be right here?” the whole night feels like when people run alongside trains to see their friends off. but we can’t even do that. our buses stop every few blocks. subway platforms aren’t long enough to run in a way that feels dramatic enough to fit the situation. torture says something like, “you don’t wanna get too far from the mess. otherwise you won’t know what to do when it comes back around.” i think that’s my biggest fear about being away from the city for too long. back in january, torture had told me she was glad i left because it made everyone realize how much they missed me. i’d rather people hate me when i’m there than love me when i’m gone.
i snap out of my preemptive nostalgia when torture britishly tells someone, “give him that fag.” kenzo seizes his opportunity and interjects. “don’t call him that!”
at 10, we stop at some wine bar. maybe for ten minutes. maybe for half an hour. i don’t know. we end up at mona’s. truth be told, i’d been here a bunch of times — i just never knew the name of the place. i get sad, thinking i’m about to spend my last night in the city going home alone. i’m about to leave at 4 when carter asks if he can walk with me. we realize we don’t wanna stop hanging out and he invites me over. i’m back in the same house where torture and i had our first night out after officially becoming friends. this house has never seen a night that’s ended before sunrise.
i don’t remember how we started kissing. “you seem like an easy person to get addicted to,” carter tells me. we kiss to the strokes and he pulls me in during “call it fate, call it karma.” julian would probably love to know that 20-somethings still feel each other up to his music.
we’re still at it when we hear a commotion outside of the door. our eyes widen, we freeze, and look at each other and laugh. we emerge from his room like two guilty people. my jewelry’s off. my hair’s fucked. my lipstick is everywhere but my mouth. there’s no question about what was going on. jack sees us, looks impressed, and raises his beer to carter. torture is getting her hair cut in the bathroom. “called it,” she says.
carter wishes he met me earlier in my trip. we kiss to “acolyte” and when our mouths are free, we sing against each other’s noses, laughing during the line, “gotta get out of ohio.”
“was that you i kept making eye contact with at baker?” i ask. it was.
“sorry, i thought you were cute but i didn’t know if you were there with someone,” i admit. carter tells me he thought the same. “you were talking to everyone,” he says. usually if i’m talking to everyone, that means i came there with no one.
grabbing a beer from the living room, i meet back up with torture.
“i knew this would happen,” she says smugly.
“i didn’t!” i was the only one who didn’t know i wouldn’t be going home alone.
it’s 6am. it’s already getting light out. carter closes the curtains to pretend like i don’t leave in less than 12 hours. i set an alarm for 7.
april 23: waking up in carter’s bed. oh fuck. it’s 10. we only meant nap for an hour and eventually rejoin the rest of the crew so i could say my proper goodbyes. but everyone’s gone. and i have to shower so i don’t come home reeking of illicit activities. carter and i hold each other while he tells me about his 9/11 conspiracy theories. we kiss each other goodbye through our morning breaths. in my stupor, i tell the uber to have a goodnight.
i smoke my last cigarette outside pads’ door, indulging in the ritual of smoking my lucky on my last morning in new york. it’s a big deal until i reach into my pocket and find another cigarette. i leave it on pads’ shelf, along with the two bottles of poppers that i’ve now left at theirs. every couch i crash on becomes a museum of our shared vices. please don’t wash the sheets until i’m back.
you have lived deliciously
i saw u in matilda at hawken like half a decade ago. and now i read your substack.