It’s fascinating, really when you encounter someone who leaves an imprint on you so deep that even the smallest trigger – a song title, a film, a name, a scent – will engulf you without warning in a tidal wave of emotions.
If you’re anything like me, work will become too much. You’ll leave the restaurant at 2 am. You’ll come back at 9 am. You won’t be able to go to auditions. You won’t be making as much money. You won’t be happy.
In the real world, our sorting ceremony doesn’t happen once but over and over again.
And now, I not only understand this advice, but I’ve dished it out a few times myself: “It sucks here. Don’t leave. It’s the greatest city in the world.”
Brooklyn has so much to offer. But. I do have to pause slightly. Just slightly. Because while it’s kind of cool just how ‘hip’ Brooklyn has become, it’s not the Brooklyn I’m too familiar with.
It won’t take you long to realize that that Queens is chock-full of beautiful men, who are not only attractive, but also make for excellent significant others.
He said we should come back again as my head rested on his shoulder, and the train moved along the track, back to Long Island. Further and further away from our wintry weekend in the West Village.
I decided to take a ride out to the beach at Fort Lauderdale. There was a long wait at a drawbridge, and four girls in a nearby car rolled down their windows. I thought they wanted to ask directions, but they were just waving and smiling. On Las Olas Boulevard a guy in the car next to mine began flirting with me.
Wandering Central Park. I’d like to sled down a hill, just one time.
Before moving to the city, I was looking forward to sipping cosmos, falling in love, and solving my romantic-comedy life with ‘what would Carrie Bradshaw do?’ Boy was I wrong.