In fifth grade, I found out that we were officially moving to Long Island. Part of me eagerly anticipated living in a house with a staircase and a grassy backyard. Yet, I was also overcome with worry about leaving the only place I’ve known. I was 10 years-old when I was diagnosed with chronic heartburn due to stress.
And yet, New York, I love you. And I don’t mean that in the colloquial way, but in that ridiculous all-consuming inconvenient can’t live without you kind of way.
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.
It was inevitable, they all understood, and so did I – the moment they left the city, they would be nothing.
I love New York, but I don’t want a New York kind of love.
After spending much of my life off and on New York’s mean streets, I’ve decided to break up with New York.
This whole failing at dating thing is starting to get to me. I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me.
Moving, as with most things in life, works better with intention and focus.
It’s like your hand getting stuck in the subway door when you think you have enough time to save yourself but you’re just too late.
Being an adult is wanting to run up to anyone who looks nice and saying, “Want to be my friend?” but knowing you probably shouldn’t.