Crystals in his ears, chaos in his chart
It started, as all divine disasters do, in Whole Foods. Specifically, in the adaptogen aisle.
I was reaching for ashwagandha. He was reaching for lion’s mane.
Our eyes met over overpriced mushroom powder. Our fingers touched.
He looked at me the way cult leaders look at new recruits: “You look like someone who’s done inner child work,” he whispered, like it was foreplay.
I should’ve walked away. But curiosity (and dehydration) got the better of me.
His name was Zayden.(Yes, spelled with a “Z” — because of course it was.)
Born in Long Island. Rebranded in Bushwick. Now living in SoHo in a “live/work NFT dojo” with three other men and one Siberian Husky named Vitalik.
He told me he recently liquidated a Goblin NFT for $38,000 and bought a Himalayan salt lamp shaped like a dragon.
I told him I wrote things.
He moaned.
Later that day, he slid into my DMs with a photo of his neck tattoo.
“Soulmate,” it read, in gothic calligraphy.
Underneath it, in smaller font: “Est. 2021.”
He said it was ironic. I said I needed context. He said I was the context.
Then went on to mention that he got it in 2021 after a full moon ceremony in Joshua Tree when he realized "everyone’s a soulmate if you’re not spiritually stingy."
Right.
He invited me on a date.
“Let’s just go for a walk,” he said. “See if our nervous systems harmonize.”
I agreed. Because when a man with a neck tattoo and crypto confidence invites you to walk through Central Park barefoot while talking about Web3 and past lives, you say yes. Because I’m not dating for love anymore — I’m dating for content.
He showed up wearing vintage cargo pants, a linen shirt, and crystals dangling from his ears like AirPods for the spiritually elite.
In his hand: a copper water bottle and a joint he called “vision fuel.”
We started walking. —Correction: He floated. Within ten minutes, he’s barefoot. Says shoes are “colonizer constructs.” He spoke in soundbites.
But also brought a Bluetooth speaker and played a playlist called “Conscious Seduction Vol. 3” — it’s mostly throat singing and light jazz.
I asked him what he did for a living. He said, “I make meaning. The blockchain is just a metaphor for love, you know? I don’t date — I merge timelines. I manifested you right after a cacao ceremony in Tulum.”
By the reservoir, he stopped. Took my hands. Looked into my eyes.
“I think you’re the first woman who’s ever made me feel… non-fungible.”
I gagged. He mistook it for emotion.
Then, he tried to kiss me. His breath smelled like Palo Santo and spirulina.
I declined — politely, but firmly.
He told me that rejection is just redirection.
I told him that was a Pinterest quote.
He told me I was too attached to the 3D.
In Conclusion:
If he has a neck tattoo that says Soulmate, owns zero chairs but three sets of mala beads,and uses “masculine polarity” as a verb... Just know: You are not on a date. You are on a walking TED Talk with a man who invested in Ethereum and emotional avoidance.
Welcome to New York Dating: Where Cocaine, Viagra, and Ego Collide
Ah, New York City — the land where dreams are made of, and apparently, so are pharmaceutical starter packs.
I recently had the profound honor of being invited on a date by a 33-year-old finance bro who, in his free time, enjoys long walks to the bathroom… with women he just met.
We first crossed paths at an exclusive lounge, where he promised me the culinary world: Daniel Boulud, Baccarat, Michelin stars twinkling above our heads.
Naturally, by the time the actual date rolled around, those promises were quietly buried somewhere between his ego and his cocaine baggie, and we found ourselves at The Carlyle. Which, for the record, is a lovely place — if you’re not on a date with a human red flag stitched together by Goldman Sachs and Adderall withdrawals.
I arrived — courtesy of an Uber he generously summoned, because chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just heavily sedated — and there he was: Waiting at a nice table, air already thick with the smell of self-importance.
Within minutes, I learned that he was:
Successful.
Very successful.
Unbelievably successful.
So successful, in fact, that he felt the need to remind me approximately every seven seconds, just in case early-onset amnesia struck mid-appetizer.
The conversation was less a dialogue and more a TED Talk sponsored by his ego.
Every time I tried to share a thought, he looked around the room like a lost pigeon in Times Square.
Multitasking at its finest: ignoring me while texting and pretending to be interested. A true New York talent.
Then came the bathroom episode.
He asked if I needed to use it — because apparently, we’re now syncing our bladders on first dates — and then…
He grabbed my hand and led me to a single-person bathroom.
Romantic?
No.
Psychological thriller?
Absolutely.
I thought he’d be a gentleman and let me go first. Cute, right?
Wrong.
The moment I emerged, he pushed me back inside and locked the door.
“Because nothing says ‘getting to know you’ like unsolicited public urination proximity.”
Before I could even scream internally, he was peeing — with the door locked behind us.
I gracefully turned my back, summoned all the spirits of awkwardness that had ever walked this earth, and told him I was uncomfortable.
He told me to “just relax,”which, as every woman knows, is the number one way to make someone totally not relax.
And if you think that’s where it peaked — oh no…!
Out came the cocaine baggie and a credit card that’s probably been places AmEx never intended.
He did a few polite rails and offered me some, which I declined because I prefer:
my nostrils unsullied
my dignity intact
Then, we waltzed out together — because nothing screams class like doing bathroom drugs on a first date at a five-star hotel.
Back at the table, he was still conducting the Self-Adoration Symphony, occasionally taking breaks to sniff more lines right there in the booth like it was just another Tuesday.
When I expressed mild confusion, he helpfully explained:
“You know what the problem with doing blow and drinking is? You can’t get it up.”
Ah, the sweet, sweet poetry of romance.
But don’t worry!
He reached into his other pocket —Because this man operates on a two-pocket system —and pulled out a giant bag of Viagra like a magician revealing the world’s saddest rabbit.
At this point, he tried touching:
my leg
my arm
my soul
…and failed at all three.
He leaned in to kiss me, but I graciously declined, informing him that not only would I not be kissing him, I would also not be starring in the pharmaceutical disaster film he was clearly directing.
Upon hearing this, he did what any true gentleman would do: He whipped out his phone, ordered me an Uber, and sent me home — back into the glittering night, another ridiculous story richer, and deeply grateful that my standards are higher than his blood pressure after 14 Viagras.
🎬 In Conclusion:
If your first date involves:
synchronized peeing
casual coke offers
emotional absenteeism
and a backup pharmacy plan for anticipated erectile dysfunction...
Congratulations!
You’re officially dating in New York.
Stay tuned for the next episode!
