I come to a dead end and turn around in defeat. I have officially walked every visible path I can find in this park, and the T. rex is nowhere to be found. I begin walking back.
It’s best to approach the matter as you would your Facebook wall: scroll, scroll, scroll until something tickles your fancy. And to that point, I’ll say this: Breitbart knows how to tickle.
According to Google, there are twelve independent bookstores in upper Manhattan, the section of the city I call home.
As I start reading and cooking, I realize that I have no idea what “barefoot contessa” means.
Lucky for me, The Hot Room was offering a free event at a local park last week.
I am not sure how to accurately convey the unpleasantness of this experience. There was no part of my body that went gentle into that good night.
It started like any romance—I gave her a coupon for thirty percent off, then my credit card number and address, known allergies, social security number, and blood type.
Faced with the incontrovertible decay of my body, I did what any aging millennial does—turn to the pseudoscience of the age and go on a cleanse.
After I signed a waiver that confirmed I wouldn’t sue Equinox if I died on the treadmill or passed out because I saw Blake Lively, we entered the immaculate studio.
Will cried when the sentences turned to me. “I’m just going to say one thing,” he said, and he had to stop for a while. “Because you’ll know what I mean by it,” and he had to stop again.