I swear, all we did was talk

Right, and so this cute, granola-looking girl flaged me down in front of the library asking if I had some time to spare for the Democratic Party. Relieved that she was not another Jew for Jesus and not entirely looking forward to getting back from lunch on time, I lent her an ear. Well, half an ear, which is really a lot for me considering my political inclinations... or disinclinations as it were. She said something about regaining seats in Congress. The word "incompetence" was used in its usual capacity. It was a typical Democrat spiel/donation request, but the girl was enthusiastic and intelligent, and I was feeling generous, so I decided to give a little and secure my spot in heaven (or possibly hell depending on your God's political party affiliation.) She wanted $100, which is a little steep for me unless it's going towards jeans or home decorating. I settled on $25 and hoped I wasn't wasting her time.

She handed me her clipboard, and I filled out my information, making a game of guessing how many spam mailings and phone calls I would receive as a result. I lost count around infinity and decided to just be surprised. Suddenly, it seemed really important that I try and explain to this nice girl why I wasn't inclined to donate a full $100. Really, the reason was that that's a ridiculous amount to ask for, especially from me, who today looks like a college student or at least a hipster-type in nerd glasses and a little polo shirt and skinny jeans who works at an independant newspaper for free and as a barista on the side for almost free... either way, not someone who can afford to give $100 to everyone on the street who asks. So I racked my brain for an excuse and thought back to my most recent high but necessary expense.

Well it just so happens that that expense was the exterminator a couple weeks ago. Remember the bed bugs? Right. So I was all: "I'd give more, but I just paid an exterminator, it was horrible." And she asked why: "Oh God, what for?" And so I, being notorious for telling my life story to total strangers, proceeded to tell her ALL about the bed bugs. Well, it turns out this was just the catalyst for more. I used to think it was alcohol that put me into spill-my-guts mode, but it turns out living in a new city and having no friends can have similar effects to alcohol in that regard. So after the bed bugs, I told her about my job and how it doesn't pay enough, but everyone says that. And then I told her how I'm trying real hard to meet people, but it's just not working out as planned. We lamented the absence of the Guy who was supposed to be here to hand out the fortune and fabulous cosmopolitan lifestyle when we arrived. I told her all about looking for another job. (I might work for a catering company soon. She used to do that in college.) And I went on and on about every little thing that's been on my mind lately... all that big life stuff that you tell to your therapist, your boyfriend, and your mom.

I wasn't whining, and I don't think I sounded too pathetic. I'm not depressed or anything, please. But deep down inside, I felt like I was paying the Democratic party for the brief companionship of this girl. Step right up! $25 to tell this girl anything you want, just $25 folks! For as long as it takes you to fill out this clipboard, we'll give you a chance to let it all out, just $25 for the piece of mind that there's someone (anyone?) out there who will listen to your pathetic ramblings! I feel bad about it, possibly in a similar way to other men who pay for relations of any variety, not that I'd know anything about how that feels, I mean please, look at me. I just really needed someone to talk to at that exact moment. Thinking back on it, though, I think I just need to drink some beer. I haven't had beer in a long time. I need to drink beer and sit at a bar with a pool table and a juke box and Adult Swim playing on mute. It would help if it were filled with gay people. Do they even make those kinds of places in New York?

To conclude, today I paid the Democratic party for the companionship of a young woman. But don't tell her that. For some reason, girls don't like being compared to whores, I don't know why.