One of the first pics taken in my apartment. Notice the carton of unpacked shit to the right. Let's all LOL at how much of a D-Bag I look.
Alright. I'm going to be sentimental for a moment because at the very core this blog is a diary of sorts, no matter how public, and I want to at least vaguely document how I'm feeling while experiencing my last few moments in New York for quite some time.
I'm sitting in bed, in this obnoxious "heather gray" American Apparel romper, drinking coffee from a dorky NYU mug. My roommate Ashley asked me to clean all my shit out from the bathroom cabinets so I'm currently surrounded by random medicine tablets and skin care products and an unused pregnancy test from like four months ago when I had a boyfriend and actually stocked up on those things because I am paranoid and ridiculous, but unnecessarily spending money on plastic you pee on is undoubtedly one of the many things I do not miss about being in a relationship. My Dad came and took all of my stuff back home last weekend so I've been sleeping on a bare mattress in a room with white walls pockmarked with the remnants of that blue sticky shit that you tack posters up with and is supposed to easily peel off but ends up leaving a greasy residue that lets NYU charge you extra for "damage."
I am fully aware that this is the nicest apartment I'll ever live in. Some day when my parents aren't taking out tens of thousands of dollars in loans to pay for NYU housing and I am living like a real person in Brooklyn paying rent by waiting tables and trying to get some sad, silly manuscript published, I will look back on this well-lit and spacious apartment that sits across from douche monster John Mayer's building and has views of downtown and sometimes if you squint the Brooklyn Bridge, and I will probably want to kill myself for not appreciating it more.
Which is why I'm making a point of appreciating it now, with cigarette ash collected sullenly in the corners of the windows, and sunlight spilling through the blinds I permanently fucked up one night while trying to drunkenly hoist them up and reveal my room to the cityscape. And I can see that rich guy with the basketball court attached to his four story townhouse shooting hoops (and missing). And I can see people smoking cigarettes on their balconies and workers scaling the sides of the old police headquarters on Centre Street to erect scaffolding around where the clock is beautiful but almost never right. I can see the best restaurant in New York, the Landmark Diner, and I can almost even see tourists pushing each other to get the best fake bag down on Canal Street.
This city has taught me a lot about myself and about the human condition. I have much more to learn, in Philadelphia, in Paris, and when I get back.
New York, I love you, oh please don't change a thing. Except maybe rent prices.