Where Have all the Cowboys Gone?

Normally I like to write about just random, kooky things that happen to me (as they tend to), but alas—here comes the dreaded “Sex and The City”-esque update. So let’s set the scene- I’m wearing boy cut underwear, a Gucci camisole, my Patsy gold ghetto-bling necklace, chain-smoking and walking around my fabulous studio pondering all of the recent sex I’ve been having.

Reality: I’m wearing jeans and a white shirt (It is BCBG though…I don’t know if that wins me any anti-white trash points), sitting at my office computer in my cubicle drinking sugar free instant cocoa, thinking about all of the sex I’m not having.

I propose the following question: What the fuck Brooklyn? What. The. Fuck. When I moved here, I wasn’t aware that it was a magical borough full of couples with dogs and babies. BABIES AND DOGS AND HAPPY COUPLES! Everywhere I look! I assured myself that when I went out a-boozin’ in the trendy area of Brooklyn this past weekend, surely I would frolic through a field of single indie-hipster boys, spin around, throw my hat in the air and sing “I’m gonna get laid after all!” But no! Even at the trendy places, it’s married couples and dating couples. Where did you people come from? In order to become a couple, you technically have to be single at some point. Therefore, there should be single people besides myself who are single and ready to mingle. But no! The entire borough of Brooklyn has coupled off. I don’t get it. How is this possible? All I know is it’s 100% depressing.

Everyday when I commute to and fro work on the subway, I have a subway crush. Someone I make eyes with hoping to God they’ll toss a note to me across the car that says “I like U, do you U like me? Circlez 1: Yes, No, Maybe.” But alas, they always break up with me and get off the train before the note can be tossed. The worst is when you’re makin’ eyes at your subway crush and you can’t see his ring finger to see if you’re a subway crush home wrecker or not. Yesterday there was a hot guy standing by me and he sneezed. I was about to say “bless you,” when I realized he was wearing a wedding ring. So I didn’t say bless you. This is how bitter I am. I wish we all had to wear stars sewn onto our clothes, a yellow star meaning you’re single, and a black star meaning you’re taken (a.k.a. you are any given resident of Brooklyn that is not myself or my roommates). Yes, sewn stars on clothes everyday. No exceptions. This is what will happen damnit! Didn’t someone try to do that before…? [Editor’s Note: Patsy is Jewish and therefore allowed to make Hitler jokes. It’s like black people with the N-word]

Last night I watched 4 back-to-back episodes of HBO’s “Tell Me You Love Me,” which taught me two important lessons: 1.) Never get married and 2.) Never have children or attempt to have children. Both will ultimately ruin your life. If this is the case, Score: Single Patsy: 1, Stupid couples with their dogs and babies: 0

But the romantic in me can’t be that cynical…last night I found out an old friend of mine got engaged. I got jealous, harsh words were thrown around the apartment (she sort of deserves them…we were Middle School friends, so she was obviously a deviant little cunt.) That makes like 5 friends from my childhood engaged in the non-white trash “I got engaged because mah boyfriend Jeb is shippin’ out to Iraq in 2 months and I gots knocked up” kind of way. Via facebook (facebook: making stalking people socially acceptable and easier since 2003,) I looked through her photos from the night they got engaged. She looked so damn happy. I want that! Later that night, I got to thinking: What the hell is a girl to do surrounded by couples, dogs and babies on an island full of happy couples?

Sha la la!
Carrie, er, Patsy


Anonymous said...

What the hell is a girl to do surrounded by couples, dogs and babies on an island full of happy couples?


2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

wise words...wise words from a wise man.

slash that's been my battle plan thus far and all it's gotten me is a drinking problem and a slight beer belly. that's not cute michael, that's just not cute.


Anonymous said...

My solution to the unfortunate phenomenon of beer bellyism is to focus less on beer and more on strong cocktails with minimal amounts of mixer. Beer is for complementing weed and lunch. For anomie, I recommend the martini. Low in calories, high in hooch.

Huw Richardson said...

I had the same problem in Brooklyn. Granted it wasn't hipsterville. Sheepshead Bay... ach!

I had better luck in Astoria. The N Train, to be exact. Subway Crushes on the N Train had a habit of transforming into reality...

OK, ok... it was a Greek Neighbourhood.

2b1b: The sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere, Monday through Friday. said...

This is all good advice...I propose I take a martini on the N train and turn some subway crushes into reality. Maybe I'll wear a smoking jacket and an ascot as well...

Thanks for the advice!

Anonymous said...

you gotta head into manhattan to be truly effed!


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