I found a boyfriend in a bar on Ludlow Street, on the Lower East Side, where a band I adored treated Mondays as a kind of bowling night with friends, and for hours would play whatever. Anyone that age should not wonder what is wrong, because it is a living hell. The only thing worse is being 26, and I turned 26 that July. In 1993 I was 25, a year of constant disaster. If I was upset and no one – no one – was at her desk or in his bedroom, I would say to my best friend’s secretary, “Let her know it’s an emergency.” Because it always was. But I had my close friends whom I spoke to everyday – had conversations with, not emails or texts – so I knew who I loved and who loved me. I could walk Greenwich Village for hours and not be found. No one did, except the occasional banker or Hollywood star seeming smart, or the main character in American Psycho.
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