There have been thousands, if not millions of works written about living here. In this hellhole everyone claims is possibly one of the best places on Earth. I’m telling you it’s not. I thought it was, which is why I moved here almost three years ago. But it’s just not.
Where to begin? The rent is literally “too damn high,” I pay more than $1k a month for a bedroom in a shared apartment with four roommates and nearly an hour commute to work each day. The days are long. You get off work and it’s already almost 7:30pm by the time you get home. And cooking dinner? Forget about it. Hop on Seamless and order anything you want and continue to think of ways to burn the modest income you do make into a heaping pile of ash. Don’t worry, cocaine is prevalent you can just cut the ash in.
Worst of all, people pretend to have this immense emotional depth when they don’t. Or maybe I’m being cynical. Perhaps they have emotional depth but it’s decrepit, broken and warped into this fucked up ideation that you’re somehow really special and each person you meet is quick whim of an experience. You don’t view people as the living, breathing, feeling people that they are, but as an experience for your own selfish pleasure. No one is special. Everyone is the same. Or maybe I don’t belong here and you all can go back to humping like rabbits.
It’s probably me. I’m an average looking, depressed and lonely woman hiding away in my Bushwick bedroom writing this now. I don’t know how I got here. My past seems to be twisted in cobwebs made up of the people who are no longer around. Why can’t I move past this dull, aching period of my life where I don’t see anything good coming my way?
At the same time I’m really hopeful, but what’s confusing is that I feel both of these feelings so strongly at the same time. I’m hopeless, but because I’ve always had something to look forward to I make myself believe that there is something out here for me despite the constant disappointment.
Brand None 