il bar lilo

Living in New York in my Twenties, I hopped around Williamsburg bars that disguised their insufferable duplications with some combination of red lights and punchy happy hour cocktails names that, if you weren’t already choking at the sticker price, you surely would on the ginormous ice cubes watering down your single ounce of liquid fools gold.

Savoring every microliter of this gilded concoction, I’d eye for the secret treasure. The hallmark of gentrification. The matchboxes. Every sipping spot on Bedford had them. And every other “th” or “st” in Williamsburg, for that matter. I got in the habit of scooping one up every time I visited a new place, each effort with a hot cheeked flash of regret as I realized my desperate sprint toward any freebee, much like Carrie Bradshaw toward a yellow taxi, revealed that my scarcity mindset of back home was still very much in-tact.

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Away from all the noise, I’d make it a ritual to sit with myself on a nightly basis. Each unfurl of my worn yoga mat a deep breath into the comfort of myself. Sukhasana on the floor, I’d search for the matchboxes to add to the bohemian aesthetic of my botanical incense contraption, harkening back to my Oregon days.

Having located my tea light, I’d fumble for a select speakeasy souvenir. “il bar lilo,” it’s your time to shine. 

Much like my online dating life, the matches looked cool on the outside and were total duds. Striking the friction grip, the match heads fell off. Even they had issues committing to their own damn stick. I’d never even fathomed the horror of such poor design. The SHEIN of matchboxes. The brief ember from the effort stained my fuckin’ cabinet. 

To hell with fast fashion and fast fires. And men, for that matter. Namaste, I’m going to bed.