“Mom, the good news is I’d make an awful serial killer,” I said, tears wetting my cheeks.

After two hours, I got another text:

“omg this uber guy took me to an empty parking lot and said I had to blow him. I screamed and Sugar barked so he did drive me to the airport but I got here too late so missed the flight. Promise to make next one in two hours, kisses”

The following is an excerpt from the latest book of essays by Erik Lewin, None of Your F*cking Business: 20 True Stories for My Amusement available here.

I had to spend a summer up at the University of Buffalo in the late ’90s. There was an awful course in statistics that stood between me and a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. Incredibly, an actual law school (not an online one with certificate) had accepted me for fall admission, but I couldn’t go without passing this class. Fortunately, I had a few college buddies up there, too, for their own reasons. My friend, Sean, was there with his girlfriend, Zara, and along with my girlfriend at the time, Janine, we all hung out quite a bit.

My father was older than his age, hardened with experience that he wore

on his sagging cheeks. It had been a long time since his mood lightened up.

After two hours, I got another text:

“omg this uber guy took me to an empty parking lot and said I had to blow him. I screamed and Sugar barked so he did drive me to the airport but I got here too late so missed the flight. Promise to make next one in two hours, kissesJ

Los Angeles. The sun - kissed taste of sandy freedom, smoggy alleyways and city tenements, stars, the heart of plastic grandeur, an American Dream personified.

I was holed up in a pad on Venice beach in between jobs. I had no furniture. It was after a break-up.

“Mom, the good news is I’d make an awful serial killer,” I said, tears wetting my cheeks.

It was a glorious day in the nation’s capital. We picked up beverages and laid out on the lawn, toasting the Washington Monument as it glinted in the sunlight. I fleetingly wondered how things were going at the conference; not well to be sure, given that the delegation from the United States was busy drinking malt liquor out of brown bags on Capitol Hill. The entire Model UN was probably falling apart.