Listen, it's the same story you already know so well. Overbearing ego paired with crippling self doubt. When I tell people I'm a writer, they assume fame and fortune aren't important values of mine, but they're wrong. I'm in it for the glory. That, and the ethereal catharsis provided by uninhibited self expression. 

I've never felt a feeling that didn't knock me off my feet. Last week, I cried on the G train listening to "Bennie and the Jets" because I didn't get to experience the 70s. I sat down on Rivington en route to an art show in the dead of winter, gathering my hair in my hands as I struggled to cope with the chaos of reality. 

When I'm not tearing at the seams, I write about street art. I write personal essays. I like modeling and making art when the mood is right. Check out the pages on my sidebar to find my work. 

My Favorite Pieces

The Wasted Years

My first drunk New Year’s brazenly betrayed my parents’ trust. “No drinking,” my mother emphatically reminded me over the phone. I struggled to hear her above the revelrous noise of her friends in the background, beckoning her outside to the makeshift shooting range in their backyard. “I know, I know,” I chided back, my voice sharp with an edge that read, “I’m an honors student with a laundry list of extracurriculars and big dreams. You know I wouldn’t do that.” I clenched our cordless house

RSVP: Exploring Terms of Entry

My sophomore year of high school, I threw a Boom Boom Room themed party in my rural Pennsylvanian garage. The concrete space, decorated solely by clutter and my father’s Grateful Dead posters, would never resemble what I considered New York’s most exclusive club. Still, I tried to install a sense of prestige with stern invitations advising that there would be no food, only water, and that all attendees must wear sequins. I spun a Grooveshark playlist with MSTRKRFT’s remix of Justice’s “DANCE” as

Meeting Your Heroes

I had been depressed before, but never like that. The first time I experienced an episode withW symptoms resembling those in the pamphlets guidance counselors give parents, I was fifteen. I had no business being in a relationship at that age, my propensity to love was far too precocious, my acuity with emotional terrorism startlingly advanced. The intensity of my first “real” relationship dragged it to the border of abuse, making accomplices out of both of our inexperienced hands. The ensuing in

By Any Means —

Three drags from an Uber driver’s cigarette bolstered my facade of calm. I swallowed the acidic taste in the back of my throat and stepped through the entrance for my first glimpse into Richard’s apartment. It was bigger than anything I’d ever seen in New York, with a spacious terrace featuring panoramic views of Central Park and the frosty Upper East Side. Black and white tiles gave the floor a sense of antiquity. I noticed a thin layer of dust covering everything and thought, Couldn’t he affor
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