Then my phone buzzes away the blank, insecure space in my brain, sparkles of dopamine pouring in. This is fine, my well-adjusted inner voice tells me, and not at all a reasonable metric of how desirable you are. Despite being a fresh face in an extremely dense neighborhood, I cannot seem to get a response on my app from any hot guys in the immediate vicinity. I have about 30 minutes before I’m supposed to meet a client the train happened to be efficient on this one occasion, of course. It’s cold, too, so my hands are going numb from idly refreshing a gay cruising app that I’ll identify by name when they start paying me to.
And so, I find myself wandering between Seventh and Eighth Avenues peering into a sterile chain cafe too overwhelmed by tourists for me to sit in peace.
But for some reason, this magical possibility seems like enough of a basis to still pursue it all the time.
