The Banker and The Torta

It was a Monday night in the West Village in NYC. I was out with some coworkers at the infamous Stonewall Inn. The place is all painted a shiny lacquer black inside with red neon lights. One of my sleazier coworkers was buying me vodka sodas and moving in closer and closer. After he confessed, “You know I’ve always been attracted to you” and grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch, I knew I had to go.

I lurched drunkenly through the historic hole and out onto the street. There I found a lovely and inviting sight – a Taco Truck! I was standing on the sidewalk savoring the deliciousness of my chicken torta when a dapper young black man walked over and started talking to me. He invited me out for coffee or drinks at a nearby out door café. I declined. And yet somehow (here’s where my memory is a bit hazy) I end up in a cab with him speeding up to midtown Manhattan. All the while he’s flattering me and carrying on in a proper British accent (he was raised in London, although his parents are African). He told me he was a banker. To which I started babbling drunkenly about Wall Street’s role in the subprime mortgage crash, the failing economy, etc, etc… Meanwhile he’s going on about how he just bought a condo with an amazing view, its so nice, blah blah blah... Next thing I know we are in his teeny, immaculately modern and sterile condo with gleaming windows looking out on the downtown lights. The banker is gesturing to a painting on the wall and asking if I like it. Then I start crying and telling him how I was about to go home and now he has taken me further away from Brooklyn and I can’t afford a cab. I tell him that I think he should pay for my cab ride home. He tells me he has no cash.
“What?! You have no cash?!! But you’re a banker!!!” I shout, incredulous.
When he realizes I am totally pissed we go back down to the street and to the nearest ATM where he gets out cash to give to me for the ride home. He is hugging me and trying to kiss me, saying “When can I see you again?” Asking for my number. I was like, “I am drunk and you are trying to hit on me. Can’t you see that I just want to go home?! You shouldn’t hit on drunk girls anyway.”
I catch the nearest cab and head home. All I want is to be alone with the rest of my chicken torta.

Julia Roberts will NOT be staring in the movie version...

In my new book EAT FUCK DIE, Notes on an Ongoing Existential Crisis, I will be tackling complex and controversial subjects such as:

- Why trying to be thin is a big FAT waste of your time
- How to get off your Crackberry and actually relate to other human beings
- Tips for seducing young semi-innocent men
- How to avoid commitment at all costs even though you think you want it
- Why 'fucking' is preferable to 'making love'