As I rode the subway home, I surveyed my surroundings. I said I'd still be a writer, but a more successful one. Hell, they continued talking long after their obligation to talk had expired. And by "less experience," I mean "absolutely no experience. At ten minutes past the event's designated start time, women were still talking among themselves. Rebecca was a satellite engineer who had written a screenplay about dating. Upon arrival, I mistakenly wandered upstairs, where I found myself surrounded by bloated white men who were talking, presumably, about how great it is to run the fucking world while eating appetizers. I was dressed in a more butch than femme fashion, but didn't join my group—frankly, I didn't know which one, if either, I belonged to. Instead, I self-consciously looked at my phone. Flirting In New York, if a girl flirts with you she probably actually wants to date you. As we stared from the darkness of our isolated perch at its illuminated, undulating flow, he quipped that he could, in this moment, very easily kill me and get away with it. A grown man stood in front of me wearing a backpack in which he had written the words "Killer Disco" in permanent marker. The sports fan finished her conversation with the ski bum and focused her attention on me. I was paying for an icebreaker, for fuck's sake! If she could have any career in an alternate universe, she told me, it would be a rabbi or a scientist.