I'm here.
I love New York City, I just hate the other people that I'm forced to share it with.
Last night on the way to dinner, over the course of walking one block under scaffolding (because it's midtown Manhattan, so of course there's scaffolding everywhere) there were three separate things, either crazy or just stupid, that happened. Number one: a man, presumably homeless, was dragging a bunch of boxes along the narrow under scaffolding walkway that was supposed to pass for a sidewalk, grunting to himself. The boxes were just about as wide as the walkway itself, so in order to pass him a person essentially had to jump over a small area of cardboard. Not fifteen feet later a woman hit me with her bag, because despite the fact that there was only room for one person to walk in either direction, she felt the need to walk side by side with her friend and assault everyone trying to walk in the other direction with her purse. Shortly after her there was a crackhead grabbing onto the scaffolding as though it were his final rock of crack, cackling to himself and generally taking up half of the walkway.
This was one block. One minute. I'm over the crazy. I can't tell what has changed: is there more crazy than there used to be, or am I just more jaded? It's absolutely not out of the question that it's my fault. Well, “my fault” isn't exactly what I mean, but maybe I'm the problem. Again, not problem... how do I put this... Is the city the same as it's always been and it just infuriates me more? Have I lost whatever quality it is that helps people to deal with it?
Maybe it is me. If New York and I were to break up, would I have to say “it's not you, it's me?” Tonight, I sang. Which is supposed to bring me joy. But everyone else is so stupid that I ended up being in a shitty mood. So I didn't go out with my friends after rehearsal, because I didn't want to be in a shitty mood at dinner and bring the energy of the group down, or make anyone else feel crappy. So now I'm home, with the cat, and I'm playing/singing Karma Police over and over again and it's helping but at a certain point it's like... why.
Whenever I think of moving away fromm New York though, I can't quite imagine it. I mean, I can imagine being somewhere else, and maybe even enjoying it, but there's always an end to it. New York is always in the back, as the place to return to. Is this home? Yes. It is. And that's fine but... why don't I feel better about it? I vaguely remember sometime around when I was twenty five that my mindset shifted to calling New York home. It used to be that I'd get on the horrible Chinatown bus to Boston, and the second I saw the Hancock tower and the Pru it's like my chest relaxed and I could breathe, because I felt like I was home. Then, at a certain point, I remember the New York skyline came into view and I thought ah... I'm home.
I'm happy to call New York home. I was always meant to live here, although I didn't actually realize that until it happened. And I love it. I just hate the other people. All ten million of them, except for like, my 34 friends.
Last night on the way to dinner, over the course of walking one block under scaffolding (because it's midtown Manhattan, so of course there's scaffolding everywhere) there were three separate things, either crazy or just stupid, that happened. Number one: a man, presumably homeless, was dragging a bunch of boxes along the narrow under scaffolding walkway that was supposed to pass for a sidewalk, grunting to himself. The boxes were just about as wide as the walkway itself, so in order to pass him a person essentially had to jump over a small area of cardboard. Not fifteen feet later a woman hit me with her bag, because despite the fact that there was only room for one person to walk in either direction, she felt the need to walk side by side with her friend and assault everyone trying to walk in the other direction with her purse. Shortly after her there was a crackhead grabbing onto the scaffolding as though it were his final rock of crack, cackling to himself and generally taking up half of the walkway.
This was one block. One minute. I'm over the crazy. I can't tell what has changed: is there more crazy than there used to be, or am I just more jaded? It's absolutely not out of the question that it's my fault. Well, “my fault” isn't exactly what I mean, but maybe I'm the problem. Again, not problem... how do I put this... Is the city the same as it's always been and it just infuriates me more? Have I lost whatever quality it is that helps people to deal with it?
Maybe it is me. If New York and I were to break up, would I have to say “it's not you, it's me?” Tonight, I sang. Which is supposed to bring me joy. But everyone else is so stupid that I ended up being in a shitty mood. So I didn't go out with my friends after rehearsal, because I didn't want to be in a shitty mood at dinner and bring the energy of the group down, or make anyone else feel crappy. So now I'm home, with the cat, and I'm playing/singing Karma Police over and over again and it's helping but at a certain point it's like... why.
Whenever I think of moving away fromm New York though, I can't quite imagine it. I mean, I can imagine being somewhere else, and maybe even enjoying it, but there's always an end to it. New York is always in the back, as the place to return to. Is this home? Yes. It is. And that's fine but... why don't I feel better about it? I vaguely remember sometime around when I was twenty five that my mindset shifted to calling New York home. It used to be that I'd get on the horrible Chinatown bus to Boston, and the second I saw the Hancock tower and the Pru it's like my chest relaxed and I could breathe, because I felt like I was home. Then, at a certain point, I remember the New York skyline came into view and I thought ah... I'm home.
I'm happy to call New York home. I was always meant to live here, although I didn't actually realize that until it happened. And I love it. I just hate the other people. All ten million of them, except for like, my 34 friends.