(Which is not really a river; it's an estuary - but, I digress.)Fortunately, Gina had an acquaintance, a "person" (Gina-ese: someone for whom she had the hots) named Karen, a putative artist, who had a studio at the tip of Greenpoint, which is the neighborhood that occupies the northern triangle of Brooklyn bounded by the East River, the Newtown Creek and the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Greenpoint is a great neighborhood to be from, as in "having left." I speak from experience, here. It took its name from the description of Dutch sailors in the 1600s, who referred to a "green point" of land interrupting the flow of the river. (I mean "estuary." But, I digress.)So we took the No.7 train (Anyone remember John Rocker? Never mind.) to Long Island City (known as "Lie City" in the Point), and then we walked across the Pulaski Bridge (named for Kasimir Pulaski, the scion of a noble Polish family, who was so swollen with the ideas of Robespierre and Marat that when he learned the colonists. But you got what you wanted, ok? Leave me out of the rest of it.” Tegan pulled on her casual shorts and stepped into her thongs.“I’m just getting started.” Olivia chuckled as she started putting on a bra.“What… what do you mean?” Tegan said in a panic, worried what Olivia would do with the information she had on Tegan.“Honey, relax. I have no grudge against you. But I want your friend’s number. Jackson, was it?”“What do you want that for?”“Because I’m going to have him arrange another party, and make a new video starring me and every son of a bitch my husband knows, and get that shit trending on xvids.”“You’re going to fuck a bunch of his friends to get back at him?” Tegan said, genuinely perplexed.“Friends, enemies, coworkers. His boss. His brother. I am going to cuck that asshole into the fucking stone age.” Olivia said. “He won’t be able to walk outside our front door without bumping into nine guys who’ve had mi cono.”Tegan didn’t quite catch the last part but Olivia accentuated.
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