Revenge as an Art Form
I promise I’m not bad. Revenge is not my thing. Except this once.
Not long ago, I dated gallery owner Casper Glansing. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the relationship was purely physical at first. I liked how little he resembled the New York art crowd. He never dressed all in black, nor did he have an emaciated frame. He was muscle-bound, almost a giant.
“I need to have the body to match my huge endowment,” he’d say, adjusting his crotch. However, he did drop dough on styling his blond hair. Why was never clear. By the end of the day, his histrionics left him looking like Andy Warhol meshed with a version of He-Man who possessed permanent rage creases on his forehead.
He insisted the way he handled stress was good for our relationship. “After work, I need something
