I love this story, as told to me by a close friend, who I’ll call Tom in case he ever decides to run for office, because I feel it so profoundly explores two of New York City’s most horrific horrors: dating and prohibitively expensive real estate.

Remember how I was dating that guy, Eric? He lived in Hell’s Kitchen and I stayed over one night. I guess I was pretty drunk the night before — we must have just stumbled into his apartment and passed out because I didn’t remember that he had a situation with his bathroom. So the next morning, I wanted to go to the bathroom, so I ask him, “Where’s the bathroom?” He says, “Oh, it’s just down the hall.” I’m thinking, “Uhhh… down the hall?” He goes, “Yeah, I just share it with some people on this floor.” So I take the key — THE KEY — and go down the hall to the bathroom. And I go in and there’s no toilet paper. So I walk back down the hall and I say to Eric, “I didn’t see any toilet paper in there, do you have any?” And he says to me, “Oh actually, I ran out of toilet paper but I’ve been using coffee filters–” and he starts going for the box of coffee filters and I’m like “I have to go.” So I left and never spoke to him again.