I believe this is what they’re referring to when they say rock bottom.

It was a cold and snowy afternoon in Manhattan and I was coming home from seeing The Wrestler and grabbing a sandwich at Tiny’s Giant Sandwich shop with my friend Chris. Justin Hi-I’m-a-Mac Long was there as was a guy who may or may not have been Colin Hanks. For the purposes of this story, let’s say it was.

Afterwards I strolled home in the beautifully light falling snow reflecting on how much I love Manhattan and whether or not I should stop at Urban Outfitters to see if those knee high grey suede boots were any cheaper.

I was so distracted that I missed the street hawking “Save the Children” volunteers corralling people as they moseyed down Broadway.

I looked up from my boot-dreaming stupor to see a very attractive brown haired man (you can’t call a man a brunette) standing directly in front of me — arms spread wide, big attractive grin on his three-day-beard face (S: scruff is among my deal enhancers which are not the same as deal makers and obviously the opposite of dealbreakers).

“Hey! How much do you love your Mom?!” he said. I mean…

“A lot,” I said, “she’s great.”

Now typically I would have seen this guy from 30 yards away, pulled out my cell phone and engaged in the following fake conversation:

“Listen, I know we don’t really have the funds, but these are disabled children we’re talking about. I want you to go find the money and don’t call me back until you’ve got it – ya’ hear?!” This varies depending on the agency I’m ignoring.

But typically this guy would be 18 years old and a girl. Not the case here. Not at all.

It pains me to say that I legitimately believed there was a chance something might develop between me and this man who hawks potentially fake children on the streets of Manhattan, but I did — fully.

“Ha, I like that you like it,” he said with a Josh Hartnett grin. If I were watching this interaction from above I would have slapped me and told him he should be ashamed of himself. Instead I said,” You know, I am doing a few more freelancing writing assignments this month so…”

“Oh you’re a writer?!” he said. Mission accomplished.

“Oh, gosh, I don’t know if I’d call myself a writer, but I just love to write so I do as much as I can, ya know. It’s really competitive in the city, so I’m lucky to get any work really…”

“That’s really impressive,” he said, “It sounds like you understand what it’s like to struggle.” …Like a starving child in Mongolia, was what he implied.

“Yes, totally,” I said. …I am going to buy this child from you because you’re very attractive, is what I’m sure my response read.

Fifteen minutes later I was the proud benefactor of a 3-year-old-girl living somewhere that would destroy my chances at winning Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego. I would 100% run to the wrong side of the floor-world map pissing off all the smarter, foreign kids watching at home. “Ugh over there!!! You idiot! Go left…LEFT! It’s in ASIA!! Ugh, dumb Americans…”

At several points in our “conversation” I considered nudging it to the next level. “So does your girlfriend do this sort of work too…?” but my right mind won out.