Bright fluorescent lights mirrored off taxies which looked like a Zamboni took a lap over their exteriors. People saluted and kissed each other goodbye with the middle finger. The scent of dirty water hotdogs filled my nostrils, and street meat built an extra layer of fat on my stomach. I was in New York to visit family — and I may have changed, but nothing here did. I was OK with that… until I met Duke*.

Before I departed from concrete heroin zombies to be greeted by meth head beach bunnies coming down from benders; I took my brother and his girlfriend out for drinks as a form of gratitude for letting me crash in their guest room for two weeks.

What I thought would be a quick round due to the lush gene skipping over my older, more put together sibling, left us lapping up the last sips of our overpriced hipster cocktails as if we were dehydrated dogs rescued from a locked car with the windows up. (Those people should burn in hell.) Tears fell from our eyes as we laughed uncontrollably — a drastic change from the previous time we saw each other cry — five years ago when my father passed away.

We called it a night after I drunkenly slid the pen across the receipt paper, displaying my cell phone number for the gentleman who left me in this inebriated state. I did so with the greatest of ease, keeping it discreet from my brother because no matter how old I am, I’ll always be the asexual baby sister.

Duke* texted me the following morning with an extended invitation back to the bar, and my superficial self-surrendered. He had dark hair, even darker eyes and my favorite, tattoos dressing up half an arm sleeve. His pants were probably tighter than mine, but I couldn’t help to think of every possible way I could transport him back to Hawaii. I wanted tall, dark and handsome to be the new coffee roast at my local coffee shop.

We agreed that we would meet up Thursday night in Manhattan. Thursday came, but my date never showed up. “I just woke up. “It was so bad, but let ’s meet up tonight. I get out of work by midnight. Or, let’s meet up Saturday, I’m off.”

When one asshole isn’t enough, it get’s messy. Picture courtesy of. The Farsighted

Island life climates vary but passing around sexual conquests like a game of Hot Potato remains the same MO as my instructor was able to offer the 411 about his disappearing acts. “He takes a shit ton of Adderall. He had orange residue around his mouth the last time I was at the bar. He eats them like candy.” It got “better.” “He’s obsessed with my friend Lindsay. Land last week he was trying to hitch a ride from two of his customers so he could meet up with her.”

Even though this would have only been a temporary fix for neglected sexual appetite; I was disappointed that I didn’t have a chance to “act my age” and retaliate. Once my brain relased the effects of a drug known as Are We Really Surprised?℞ I evidently diagnosed myself with If I’m single, I’m on a Never-ending Episode of The Bachelor. I’m an option until the other party runs out of contestants and roses.

*names have been changed because I’m not an asshole.