Me: The commenters are winning.
Him: To the victors go the spoils.
Me: That's grim.
Me: We get the heroes we deserve.
Her: Fuck you, I deserve better.
Her: You're describing "serial monogamy," right?
Me: No, I hate that phrase. It sounds banal, scientific. Not only is it completely without passion, but it's also lost its meaning.
Me: It's true. It was once the perfect description of something, but that something is now gone.
Her: So what is it now?
Her: Yeah, that will catch on.
Me: I have a new Tumblr. It captures all my self-loathing.
Her: It looks more like it captures all your self-mythologizing.
Me: I hate you.
Her: What is it you want?
Me: Like everyone else, to feel something.
Her: Really? I don't want to feel anything.
Mind the Age Gap
Her: She's 23. Isn't she supposed to be back-packing across Europe or something right now?
Me: No, she's too busy trying to take over the world, not experience it.
Her: These millennials -- they're different than us.
A Linguistic Cliche
Me: I made out with a cute 23-year-old girl with a Tumblr last night.
Him: Every part of speech of that sentence is redundant.
Me: I secretly want someone to write the novel about this scene. I want someone to prove that all of this matters.
Him: The book on the scene is already out there -- it's written on all the blogs and illustrated by Flickr.
Me: The blogging scene is just a gigantic conspiracy to prove that "self-loathing" and "arrogant" are actually synonyms, not antonyms.
Her: You've already said that to me. Twice.
Me: My material is getting weak.
Me: I made the mistake of showing you my Tumblr while drunk last night.
Her: I remember.
Me: I'm sorry.
Her: Why are you trying to go all Gould-Lodwick on me?
Me: I tried to compare reblogging and dating on Twitter today.
Her: How'd that go?
Me: Oh, you know Twitter -- deep conversations erupted.
Her: What's your theory?
Me: Both are about aggregating, affiliating, churning, repurposing.
Her: Do you count your reblogs?
Me: Now you're catching on.
[Not a chat session.]
Me: I hate the Facebook status thing.
Her: Yes, everyone does.
Me: But I think it's fascist.
Her: You don't think "It's complicated" fills in the blanks?
Me: It's all fucking complicated!
Your Other Number
Me: Remember when people used to ask each other how many people they've slept with?
Me: I've finally figured it out.
Her: Oh, this should be good.
Me: It's called "Hookup Culture." That's what we're living in.
Her: You need a name for this?
Me: I do. But only because it's different.
Her: Is it?
Me: Yes! I think you're too young to realize that.
Her: My innocence is shattered.
Me: Are you happy?
Her: Would you please quit asking me that?
[Drinks. A small group, giving advice.]
Her: You need to date outside the scene.
Me: Should I be taking notes?
Him: It's true. Date outside the scene.
Me: Is this a maxim?
Her: Always date outside the scene.
Me: I promise you that I will date outside the scene. And inside the scene.
Me: Do people go on dates here?
Me: I don't believe you. I think people just make out in alleys.
Him: Now I know you're full of shit. New York doesn't have any alleys!
Me: Well, everything feels like an alley.
Her: Here's my number.
Me: What am I going to do with this?
Her: Call me.
Me: On the phone? People don't call each other any more, do they?
Her: How else do you tell a boy you like him.
Me: Follow him on Twitter.
Her: You need to get more friends who aren't bloggers.
Her: Okay. Any.
[Bi-coastal chat session.]
Him: How often are you getting laid?
Me: That's an interesting question.
Me: The makeout-to-sex ratio is high in this city. You makeout a ton, but you only have sex maybe one in eight times.
Me: I don't know if it's geography, or the scene, or the casualness with which people make out.
Him: Good. I'm still getting laid more than you.
[A bed. Dark. Late.]
Me: I have a question for you.
Me: Um, do you hook up with lots of people?
Her: You're really going to ask that?
Me: Yeah. I know it's a dumb...
Her: Yes, I guess I do.
Me: Okay, me too. Way more since moving here though.
Me: I don't know how anyone has relationships here.
Her: I don't want a relationship.
Me: I wasn't trying to imply that.