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Ah, Williamsburg. You remind me so much of my city liberal arts-ish college’s “campus”. Everyone’s outfits look like they came straight from Vice’s do’s and don’ts (some do’s, some dont’s, all beanies) and most are chain-smoking. No one looks anyone in the eye, and all have an iPhone in hand.

Yesterday afternoon I decided to head down to Billyburg less to reminisce about college, and more for a couple beers. And a couple drinks. After being made sufficiently-sloshed to need a cigarette I stepped outside for a minute and had a seat on a nearby stoop, watching the people walk by. “I’m so inconspicuous,” I thought semi-drunkenly, taking a drag from my 27. “I wonder what it would be like to have the face of a celebrity.” I spent the next 15 minutes pretending I had the following faces: Bill de Blasio, Alexa Chung, Woody Harrelson, Oprah, and Amanda Bynes. Nothing changed, I was still smoking a cigarette inconspicuously on a stoop, and I still had my face and not Amanda Bynes’. I sighed, and continued contemplating faces, celebrity, and what makes one “conspicuous.”

I must have been very distracted, because I didn’t notice that someone had sat next to me on the stoop. I checked the face: Lena Dunham. “Now that’s a conspicuous face,” I thought. I wondered whether and how I should tell her about how I like Girls and find it insanely funny, but generally dislike the girls’ personalities, and sort of hate-watch it every week. In deconstructing the term “hate-watch” and realizing it seems more appropriate a way to describe watching Fox News than a show I willingly (often gleefully) log into HBO GO to watch every Sunday at 11, I got a bit distracted—as I am often wont to do. She was gone. At least, I thought, I didn’t use the term “hate-watch” inappropriately. As I stomped out  my cigarette with the heel of my boot, I noticed it. Gleaming next to my sole was: Lena Dunham’s Iphone. Shit.

“LEEEEEEEEEENA,” I called down Bedford Ave. “LENA FUCKING DUNHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM,” I continued. Someone shouted back “SHUT THE FUCK UP,” but that was the only response I got. I sat back down on the stoop and looked at what lay inside my cupped hands as it vibrated and vibrated and vibrated. There was no chance I wasn’t going to look through it. No chance. And so I unlocked it. Turns out, Dunham and I have the same fingerprint on our right pointer fingers. “I should probably alert science about this,” I thought. But then I saw the red notifications scattered about her home screen. “Science can wait,” I said to no one in particular as I pressed my finger to her green speech-bubble icon.

Text Messages

Unopened message from Adam Driver. I open it—it’s a picture. A picture of what I can only assume is his dick, wrapped in fur. That’s weird—it’s not season one. Another text from Adam: “Sorry, that wasn’t meant for you,” it reads. I try not to be offended as I wonder whether Lena’s phone is actually an enchanted object which allows one the power of time travel.




Next, I go to the icon with the most notifications—64, to be exact. Emails from HBO, someone named “Mom” (probably her mom), and Jemima Kirke. OH, Anna Wintour. Here’s one I want to open. It’s a long stream of back and forth’s about her Vogue cover. Lena asks, “Are you sure about this cover? I just feel like maybe I look a little worried and maybe there’s another picture where I don’t look worried?” Anna’s response is a curt “too late.”



Photo Roll

So many photos, but it’s hard to look too closely as the roll is littered with hundreds and hundreds of nude selfies. As I examine a particularly interesting one involving oddly placed mirrors and back contortion, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey I think that’s my phone,” says Lena as she looks over my shoulder and confirms, via her own boobs, that it is—in fact—her phone.

“Sorry,” I say awkwardly as we both look at the image on screen.

“It’s a good one, huh?” She asks as I pass the phone back to her.

“Yeah,” I say, “really good one.”

“I’m pretty good at being naked,” she replies, seemingly undisturbed by my snooping.

“I think so too,” I say, honestly, as she smiles and walks away.

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“Damn,” I think to myself. “Should have started with Snapchat.”