One time I went and saw the Darjeeling Limited in Union Square with Chris and it turned horribly bad after a random fight of sorts in Forever 21 and he left me in Manhattan and went back to Astoria. I was sad and crying and frantically calling his cell to find him but my cell was dead so I used subway payphones. I was crying and all dressed up and this extraordinarily gentle gay man approached me. He was pure Andy Warhol, everything. He wanted to take my photograph for a book he was putting together of people in NYC. He was so nice, and just... exactly like Andy Warhol. I was quiet and mesmerized and glad to be his muse for just a minute. He had me write my email address in a small artsy notebook and promised to email the photo ASAP. Well, he did, that same night. I look at that photograph and I see stick legs holding up a strong woman. Introspective yet observant. I can almost sort of make out dried up tears on my checks that slightly streaked my makeup perhaps, at least to a perfectionist by disorder.
It is, in many respects, one of my favorite photographs of myself.
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