New York Fuckin' City
I have to tell you that *nothing* turns me on more than a man from New York who's really angry all the time.
So shoot me an email, big boy! We can dress in black on black and go to AD and stand around and not dance, and look bored, and complain that no one makes a good martini in this town. Then we can go for something to eat, and I'll suggest sushi and you'll say "Jesus fuck, what is this, 1995? I guess you like sun dried tomatoes, too?" and I'll laugh and pretend I was kidding. Then you'll treat me to a lengthy monologue on how shitty LA pizza is. "And bagels," I'll say. "Don't forget the bagels." But you won't actually pause to let me speak, because, well, you're from New York.
Then we can go back to my apartment. I'll apologize for the Spanish Mission architecture and talk about how I'm looking into getting a loft downtown as soon as the homeless people have been moved out of the warehouse. "You think you know homeless people?" You'll say, and I'll brace myself for another monologue. I wonder if you know that you spit when you get excited.
"You don't know homeless people! In New York? I had a homeless guy living *in my kitchen*."
Before I can respond, you'll be over looking at my CD collection. I'll ask you if you want a drink. Sure, you reply, but only if it's some obscure Mexican beer home-brewed by an illiterate grandmother and her mule in Xoactlcoatl. I stare at the Heineken and Coronas in the fridge, and quickly hide the Budweiser left over from last week's Memorial Day barbecue.
THAT DOESN'T SOUND APPEALING AT ALL! Do you think that maybe, in the past, other great women have agreed with me?
...No, you're right. I'm sure you get rejected not because you're an asshole, but because all LA women are moronic airheads.