The space at the end of our block was empty when I moved in. Nine months later, it was a falafel place that was already in the process of becoming a bodega; cardboard boxes of Haribo gummies and far-fetched flavors of multigrain chips were stockpiled along brand-new blue metal racks. I cannot tell you about the time in between, only that I looked up one cold, gray day and there was fog on the windows and a hand-drawn sign taped to the door that advertised free Wi-Fi.
My girlfriend Lauren and I frequented the bodega around the corner during our…
The eighteen months that I spent living and breathing the Hillary Clinton email program were the best of my life, and I’m so fucking excited to introduce you to it.
We were responsible for three things: raising money, recruiting and activating volunteers, and making sure people voted.
In September of last year, my girlfriend and I decided to fix our finances. Not because it was embarrassing that I had so much credit card debt, or because we were tired of taking Lyft rides home from work and then feeling bad about it, but for one very specific reason: We were both working for the Clinton campaign, and we both fully believed that, following the 2016 presidential election, one or both of us would have to move to Washington, DC.
You know, to work for President Hillary Clinton.
I first started seeing my therapist in January of 2016, an unintentional New Year’s resolution. At the time, I worked for Hillary Clinton’s campaign in the Brooklyn headquarters twelve hours a day, seven days a week, so I was pretty much shaking with stress and frustration and a feeling of pleasepleasepleasewehavetowin all the time. I was simultaneously so depressed that even lying with my head beneath our Christmas tree — my favorite thing! — in my girlfriend’s apartment didn’t make me feel… anything. I tell you this only so you understand: Not seeing a therapist was not an option.
One of the faint silver linings of the big bad thing that happened in November (and who is, at this moment, moving his sweat-stained ill-fitting collared shirts into a closet in the White House) is that more and more people are discovering one of the great truths about New York City: It is the best place in America in which to cry in the street.
I’m not talking about the single tear that ekes out when you reach the second act of Hamilton. I mean full on, red-faced weeping through the streets of New York, taking an entire walk home…