I just did a massive rewrite and sent this to my editors. Thinking that it might be torn to shreds, I figured that I would publish it here in its pure state. BECAUSE ITS MY BLOG AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.

I am 22 years old & I have a babysitter. Five babysitters in fact. Their names are Tito, David, Luis, Rob, and Daniel and they’re the doormen in my apartment building in the East Village. On a good day, my doormen will ward off potential stalkers, sell me drugs (one of them, at least) and inform me if the delivery guy has arrived downstairs. We share gossip, exchange enthusiastic high fives and form a bond with one another. However, after six months of living in a doorman building, I have begun to see the dark side of the relationship. I have seen my doormen take on the role of a judgmental parent; giving me the evil eye if I stumble in drunk at four in the morning, commenting negatively on my outrageous/amazing outfits or yelling at me if I’ve left a package sitting downstairs for too long. It has become clear to me that these guys have become my substitute parents. They have unwillingly served as moral watchdogs. And that’s why, until I’m all growed up, I will never live in a doorman building again.
    Searching for a typical example of when I have felt shamed by my doormen, I am brought back to last Friday night. My night was winding down as it usually did, drunk and stumbling into my apartment when I noticed that something was missing: my phone. Panicking, I did what every other irrational person would do: I buzzed down to my doorman.
“Yes, Ryan?”
“Oh my god, you got to help me. 911. I lost my phone and you have to call it for me
so I can find it!” I said, slurring unintelligibly.
“I can’t understand-”
“Great, the number is 805-”
“Ryan, you aren’t making sense. Please slow down!”
“815- 911. Wait that’s not my number.’”
Click.
Defeated, I retreated to my bed and fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up and found out that my phone, much like my dignity, was left at a friend’s apartment in the Lower East Side. After informing my doorman of this unfortunate mix-up, I was met with the kind of stone-cold silence only a mother could provide. 
    After the initial hurt wore off, I begun to think about the role of a doorman. I realized that they are not there to help drunk privileged college students find their phone. They’re there to help the eighty year-old Grandma in Prada carry up her groceries. I wouldn’t be needing them as a parent if I wasn’t acting like a child. That’s why I believe living in a doorman building in college is a huge mistake. Because until you get your shit together, you need to stumble into your apartment at four am, lose your phone and find the goddammed thing yourself.