BLINDED BY THE BLING

I may have been the most expensive first date ever.

At the Bowery, moments before the moment of truth.

To me, he appeared as a disembodied, floating head. Much like the great Wizard of Oz. To him, I was about four inches tall and fit in the palm of his hand. With a swipe of his thumb he could change my outfit, hair, and the song I wiggled to. Although, to me he had no thumbs because he was just a head. I was afraid to imagine his thumbs. What if they were weird? He also had full access to much of my consciousness, which had been dowloaded into bite-sized personal essays, right here, on this very Substack.

With all the unknowns on my end, there was one thing certain. The Head had fat stacks in the bank. When a man leads with his wallet, sending you giant flower bouquets, Nobu to your door because he doesn’t like the idea of you eating quinoa, and suggests you quit your dreadful day job so he can take care of you–all within a few days of virtually meeting–it’s a burning crimson, eyeball searing, bloody red flag. I know. I knew. But I was l…