I knew I had to change my life when I walked into Lost Lambs writer Madeline Cash’s 30th birthday party last Friday in God-knows-where Brooklyn and recognized no less than three different people that I had made out with in as many weeks.
I hadn’t fucked any of them—a small miracle! My tender, fragile spirit could not handle that kind of emotional dysregulation even in the best of times. And these are not the best of times, as you may be able to tell by the fact that you are reading my first piece of freelance journalism ever, a process that has forced me to grapple with two of my greatest fears: e-mails and deadlines with consequences.
