This year, something revolutionary happened to my love life: I moved to New York.
Perhaps my inability to refer to myself as an artist without setting apart the word in quotation marks says something about my state of mind on the matter.
Was it my ragged four-year-old Chuck Taylor’s that made you exclaim “Hey beautiful!” as I walked by? Or was it my sweater that was two sizes too large that urged you to give me the pet name “Baby Cakes”?
How many people on my guest list are on a strictly raw food diet?
Fuck anything else, life begins and ends in “The City”
Gigi was Zayn’s knight in shining armor.
This city that has brought life back into me. This city that has brought air back into my lungs. This city that has made me feel more alive in three minutes, than I have in three years.
I think of other places that might want me better. Anywhere but here, it felt like, and I would be happier. And it made me so sad.
“He was like the flesh and blood equivalent of a DKNY dress…. you know it’s not your style, but it’s right there, so you try it on anyway.”
New Yorkers’ way of life could perplex anyone, but perhaps the transplant with the most to learn is the humble country bumpkin, a rare genus of American prevailing from the so-called Flyover States.