No, you!

Owing to our equally busy schedules, Galactica and I rarely have time to rendezvous. But the other night, between babysitting and a party, between Badvertiser and cleaning up a trifecta of my dog’s piss, shit, and barf, we were able to meet up at Café Gypsy for a dinner date.

To bystanders, we must seem absurdly conceited, for our dates together usually goes something like this:

“Your blog is awesome.”

“No, your blog is awesome.”

“No, yours!”

After we make ourselves feel better about our living-in-a-cardboard-box future as writers, we usually try to console each other about our perpetual boyfriendlessness by complimenting the shit out of each other’s outfits.

“Well, at least your outfit’s silky.”

“No, your outfit‘s silky.”

“But yours is silkier!”

And then we more often than not get too drunk off too much alcohol way too early. We head our separate ways, while some residual light from the sun still glows on the horizon, and I can only imagine us in our separate subway stations, one heading to Brooklyn and one heading to Queens, simultaneously and furiously swiping our MetroCards through the MetroCard reader, only to be prompted many a time to “PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I yell at the turnstile.

“No, go fuck yourself,” it replies, in green, digital font.

“No, you go fuck yourself…”