I have not been entirely forthright with you on my New York experience. I guess I like to think in grand terms all the time, so if circumstances and experiences are less than grand I may go on a miniature detour shedding a glimmer of light on the bumps ahead on my path, but then I steer you right back to the straight and narrow making New York seem very glam and fab, fab, fabulous.
New York City is phenomenal of course, but not for nothing. It is by and large, a brutal beast who is doing her best to decimate me. Unlucky for New York--fickle temptress that she is--I am not to be underestimated. I don't give up so easily. But here's the truth pals:
Remember that perfect, huge brownstone I said I signed the lease on awhile back? Well that was true. I did sign the lease, but oh about three days before move-in they pulled the plug as my financials weren't quite up to par for this city. Word to the wise, New York doesn't just want thousands of dollars put down for security deposit and first months rent, but then there's that tricky business of a broker. Before when I used to get stressed in college coming up with $800 for a new apartment, I thought I had it bad, working at a sandwich shop and cashiering at a craft store. Nope, try coming up with about $5,000 and a co-signer and probably a sugar daddy for good measure all while having two jobs and considering two more while contemplating selling off some of your wardrobe and book collection.
Was I homeless and living on subway cars all these months? Of course not, I am one blessed individual and I have had a bit of a Fairy Godmother type situation, but alas, even Cinderella had a time limit with her mice turned chauffeurs and had to return to scrubbing floors. So while I have enjoyed my time at the ball, or rather my time in the lush neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights with a rooftop garden and a view of the Manhattan skyline and Brooklyn Bridge, the time has come, the wise walrus did say.
This girl is going to have to get ugly. My standards have officially lowered a great deal. Forget dreams of Kirst and I having our own bedrooms and a place all our own--home sweet home--in a quaint Brooklyn neighborhood with a charming name like Red Hook, or Carroll Gardens. Nope, I have started looking on the outskirts, the rundown areas, the places that sound like garbage pails and not places on a Monopoly board, offering bedrooms described as itsy-bitsy and insisting that you be 420 friendly for your new skateboarder roommate.
I happily reply, that yes I am interested and my sister and I will share a room overlooking a rat-infested alley! Can we move in by October 1st? After spending the majority of my yesterday having meltdowns envisioning myself on a cot at the local YMCA, I have fully embraced this new struggle as a charming chapter in my book of life.
This is nothing but another adventure for me and quite frankly, even though I like to throw up a lot of fuss about how many struggles it takes to make it here, I have realized I never expected easy and not many people get the opportunity to do things my way, which of course is off-road it as often as possible. Who the hell likes the straight and narrow anyway?
Not this girl, adventure is my middle name and the prospect of living with someone who says they are into rooftop yoga and play the guitar tickles my fancy right fierce. Why did I ever want a huge brownstone in Park Slope anyway? How overrated, how very un-starving artist of me.
I have a worn-out laptop for writing, my beaut of a camera for photo opps, my poetry books, my very own guitar, and my sister. Fuck brownstones. Fuck expectations.
I am not going anywhere New York, even if you do continually sucker punch me in the jugular. I will one up you, because guess what? I will sleep on a cot in the YMCA before buying a one way ticket home.
Yep, dukes are up, baby.