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. Weeks before, 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. 

Authenticity from every individual poses the only hope for saving what I see as an ailing society. I have overcome a great deal of emotional hardship to achieve the clarity I strive to present you with. 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

Bed Mates

I’d never had a sober sexual relationship. “Honestly non-monogamous,” read Rob’s online dating profile. At the beginning of 2018, I was just two weeks out of my five-year affair with alcoholism, but I was still perusing the same apps I’d use to find men who might buy me drinks. Armed with no 12-step program, just my own desperation, I passed the days doing anything that would fill time. I loved the idea of men. I thought to find one might brighten the landscape of an otherwise dark, blank future

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

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

Conflicting Forces Within A Rapidly Changing Lynn

In January 2019, we ran an article highlighting the role that street art can play in aiding the nefarious forces of gentrification, oftentimes set into action by greedy corporate land developers. We told this story specifically through a lens focused on the role that the new Beyond Walls mural festival has played in a rapidly transforming Lynn, Massachusetts. This article, admittedly, focused quite heavily on rhetoric from citizens who oppose the wealth beginning to trickle into Lynn, and by ext
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