I routinely happen upon men who are perplexed when I eventually declare that I want to know where we stand. Indecision is not a noble virtue. If a man is in “Not really feeling this becoming more than what it is,” territory, I should be made aware in no uncertain terms. If a man is in “I am waiting for someone else to be my girlfriend but I’ll keep you around till I find her” territory, I ought to know that too. My feelings, and the feelings of many people I know, are more hurt by the prolonged waiting for a concrete answer while we sit quietly with our feigned [...]
Buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles. Rent a car from the Enterprise booth at LAX. Make sure it's a truck of some sort—an SUV should be fine—and request air conditioning and a CD player. Demand that the woman at the booth read the first three pages of the introduction to the Penguin Classics edition of Saint Augustine's Confessions aloud to you, right now.
"Why?" she'll ask. "I should get security—"
"Forget it," you'll say. Get the keys and haul ass to Tijuana. You are not fucking going to Coachella.
Find a cool, carpeted spot at the Brooklyn Library on Grand Army Plaza, preferably near an [...]
Tornadoes are chill. Very chill.