I’m a poor book editor whose plan B somehow pays even less money.
25-year-old girl seeks boy with shit mostly together. Ivy Leaguer with some bush league tendencies. Moderate in my politics, heavy in my drinking, confident in my French sauce-making skills, not ironic in my love of George Michael. Sometimes I call in sick to work on a novel I’ll never finish and end up watching documentaries on dinosaurs. Let’s talk latest issue of New Yorker, NFL, logical positivism, 70s horror films, Pynchon, the lameness of the final season of every J. J. Abrams show, and how much butter to put in mashed potatoes.
Hospital corners on your sheets is a plus. Fetishizing Judith Butler is a minus. Keffiyeh as a scarf is a deal breaker.