Sandy was exciting for exactly five powerless seconds.

Until the storm surge rushed up the street and you realized you probably should’ve accepted an invitation to spend the storm not-alone.

Also, you should’ve bought more ice.

Three days later, there’s still neither power nor fresh water below 30^th St., but you’ve already fled for higher ground.

You’re presently living in a girlfriend’s living room with your best gays, and you’ve checked in with your family and on people like Phyllis.

Everyone’s living out of a backpack, but no one’s lacking—not when there’s toilets that flush, phones that charge and refrigerators that hum capably. In fact, no one can remember the last time they felt so conscious of—or grateful for—the luxury of friendship.