My day starts off sharply at 10:32 A.M. I greet my roommate, Sebastian (he/him), as I head for the refrigerator of our two-bedroom apartment in search of the freshly-squeezed orange juice I purchased three days ago at a farmer’s market in Brooklyn. Sebastian and I share a cozy 1700 square foot loft in Williamsburg that we have made our own. I love it here, and after graduating from Tufts with my writing degree, it’s so refreshing to live in a neighborhood where I can acknowledge my privilege by the beautiful diversity our community fosters. After spending twenty minutes or so reading the correct opinions of my favorite Vox journalist, it’s time for coffee. I unlock my bike, throw on the clothes I spoiled myself with from last month’s thrift store gala, and dig my heels into my Chelsea boots. I prefer riding my bike around New York; not only is it environmentally conscious, but I have also dropped a waist size or two.
As I pass by the commuters and construction workers, an indie artist you’ve never heard of blasting in my AirPods, I see something disgusting. To my left, a cis-white-construction-working-male reaches for the hand of a young lady—sexual harassment in the workplace, no surprise coming from what I presume to be a Trump supporter. I immediately decide to take action, so I thrust my iPhone from my chinos and snap a picture for my 548 Twitter followers, who value my thought/opinions deeply. Next, I run over in a frenzy, “Excuse me??? Is he assaulting you?! Before I assist any further, what is your correct pronoun????!!!” Surprisingly, she responds with, “actually, no, I had stumbled in a pothole, and this man was just helping me.” This time was a false alarm, but you can never be too careful with these kinds of things, so I remind the construction worker to wear his mask and go on with my journey.
I pass by the old Starbucks on Montague street. The reconstruction of the old place fills me with pride. There I was, while a majority of the people at our June Black Lives Matter protest peacefully expressed their frustrations against injustice with picket signs and solidarity, I stood shattering the metaphorical glass of racism by destroying this Starbucks franchise. When the peaceful protestors insisted that we were hurting the cause, my Racquetball friends and I just knew that we were doing the work they couldn’t do because of the shackles placed by oppression.
Coffee in hand, it’s almost noon, and I’m ahead of my work schedule. Just as I begin pedaling towards my safe space, I am impaired by the vibration in my pocket. Two missed calls from Father. I haven’t spoken to my birth Father in seven months. I am not adopted; I just feel uncomfortable calling somebody who wouldn’t donate to Bernie’s campaign my own blood. In unity with all groups suffering in America, I let my Father cut me off from my clothing spending, but now it seems he no longer wants to pay for my phone bill. This stress is creating overwhelming anxiety. Somehow I muster up the courage to bike back home.
I haven’t returned to writing my historical-fiction novel about toxic masculinity since RGB died (which I’m positive was a necessary decision). With the pressure I’m feeling to text back my Dad, there is just no possible way I can work today. After a brief call Zoom meeting with one of my most trusted college professors, who I now have the liberty to call a close friend, it’s time to cope with the chaos of the day. I turn on Cuties on Netflix while reminding my Twitter followers that if they think it’s weird that a show is based around pubescent girls dancing provocatively, they are as ignorant and uncultured as our last President. The movie ends around 4:30 P.M., and I begin to prepare for the swaray Sebastian and I are hosting later at the loft. Many of Sebastian’s art school friends will be in attendance, and I must freshen up my mind with their activity on Instagram. One of his friends, Khiarha (pronounced Kiera she/her), has made quite an impression with her modern piece of three ink-stained dildos. It’s an homage to the sexist rhetoric many female journalists were subject to in the 1930s, but I wouldn’t expect my readers to understand that level of complexity.
By 9:15 P.M., the party is in full swing. The record player I bought is the subject of a lot of praise, and I’m pleased with the intellect of my guests. My only qualm is with Sebastian’s ex-partner’s new boyfriend. This barbarian, dressed inappropriately in an Eagles jersey, dared to approach me by saying, “Hey bro, don’t mean to be a bother here, but do you have anything besides microbrewed IPAs? Maybe like a Bud Light or Something?” Ummmm, no “bro” my refrigerator is not home to sewer water with carbonation. To save face, I offered him an Ale, which he grabbed with his disgusting, cis-white Trump-supporting ignorant hands. Around one, after I had dispensed all of the cocaine I had purchased with my Dad’s money, I remind my guests to wear a mask and bike home safely—another stressful day in Williamsburg.
