Went to NYC yesterday for a few hours. Sheer observation alone, it kind of seems like living in New York City is some kind of mental illness, or Stockholm syndrome. Here’s some things I overheard on the street:

“I have to make $200 a day every day of the year to afford rent but at least I am one block from the best smoked salmon bagel in the world”

“I had to sell all of my blood last week but at least when people ask where I live I can say – Manhattan, or Womanhattan as me and my girls call it”

“Even my hedge fund daddy is a little concerned about sustaining me but it’s worth it because at least I completely forgot what nature looks like.”

“Think of it like a VIP all-access pass to Disneyland, but instead of Disney it’s a simulation of perpetual near death experiences.”

“I got everything I need – I need fresh air I walk to the oxygen bar down the street, I need food there’s a bodega right under my apartment, I need to be alone I go out into the crowded streets, I need exercise I go for a swim in the sea of yellow taxis, I need some authenticity, I just consider my reality and immediately have a panic attack.”

“I could never live anywhere else, literally I don’t know how to escape here, please help.”

“I got 3 bags of groceries, hauled them 14 blocks, squeezed through two sets of those heavy doors that close really fast, then climbed the treacherous stairs 14 floors, I fumbled to look for my keys, realized I left them in the front door of my building, I left the groceries at my door and run down, flustered I accidentally gave attitude to my neighbor, got to the bottom, my keys were gone, defeated I went back up to my apartment, my groceries were gone, I fell to the floor and cried until the building superintendent walked by and saw me. And THAT’s how I made my first (and only?) friend in New York City.” 

Every time I get home from NYC and return to my sweet Philadelphia, it’s a sigh of relief. I hope all those people I overheard out there figure it out and are OK.

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