Be My Husband and I'll Be Your Wife

Shit's rough sometimes. You know? And it's really easy to get trampled by your own misfortunes and blow them up, in your own head, to monumental proportions. You lose sight of the things in life that are good, because you're shitty and depressed and all you want to think about is how terrible everything is. (By the way, I have a point, I swear. There's a reason for the protracted saccharin diatribe.)

Case in point. I lost my job a few weeks ago. And that's crappy, right? On top of that, it was right before I was due for a loooong trip back to my hometown to visit my parents. And as if sitting around and feeling lazy and sorry for myself isn't bad enough, add to it a thousand pounds of parentally-induced stress. "You should be looking harder. Do you really need that second helping of turkey? I certainly hope your next boyfriend isn't going to be one of those artist types again. I bet your other coworkers already found new jobs. You just haaaaad to live downtown, didn't you. You never come visit us any more." At the end of which, even the sanest person can be expected to want to blow their fucking brains out of the back of their head. On top of that, I'd managed to catch my roommate's bronchitis of Ebola-like proportions right before I left ("You have that cold because you don't dress warmly enough, why don't you wear the sweaters we bought you?") which all summated in me seeking refuge in the pink-bideted, floral wallpapered downstairs bathroom at least three times a day to have sobbing, blubbery mini-breakdowns. By the time I packed up my meager possessions (including three brand new sweaters I will never wear) and wrapped up my coughing, post-nasal dripping mucused corpse for the journey back to New York, the prospect of braving Christmas travel traffic in my pathetic state didn't even faze me. I wanted to be home. NOW.

Here's what I'm getting at.

The sight of the Manhattan skyline, after any journey, is enough to make my heart sing. This time, in my drugged and downtrodden condition, after six days of endless beratement, it actually brought me to tears. Not kidding, I actually cried. Like a bitch, I shed a tear at the sight of New York City. And it made me realize that no matter how bad things get, I always have my boyfriend New York. I knew that my apartment was just a short subway ride away, and that once I was there I could get all comfers cozers in my bed and have chicken soup, Diet Coke, TheraFlu, tissues, and cough drops delivered to my front door in about 20 minutes. I realized that in spite of being a cranky sniffly unemployed piece of shit, there was still something to be happy about. And that's important for cantankerous sarcastic fuckers like you and me to remember from time to time... We desperately want to hate the world always, but there are some things that are just unwaveringly good.

Like New York. Good lord, I love New York.

And here's why. Because everything is a phone call away. Groceries, pizza, hookers, drugs, Chinese food, cab services, you name it, and it can be at your doorstep in 30 minutes or less, and when you're sick and no one is around to take care of you - you can take care of yourself using only your handy touchtone phone. Because no where else on the planet can you experience the singular act of people watching like you can on the NYC Transit subway. Because on any given night of the week you can walk into any given number of downtown bars and choose any one of about fifteen eligible, gorgeous, well dressed brilliant men and take them home with you if you wish. If not, you can take down their phone number and begin the courtship dance that will eventually lead to a meaningful and mutually fulfilling relationship. Because in New York, girls change into their comfortable but unsightly shoes when they get to the office, and their 5" stillettos are the provenance of walking down the street. Because you're incapable of being outside and alone. No matter what time of day it is, people are on the streets, walking their dogs or babies or girlfriends. Because no other city in the world has its own code of conduct, and although sometimes people overstep the bounds of Newyorican propriety (see earlier rants), living here you learn to respect others and they, in turn, respect you. Because here people smile at you when you walk down the street for no reason. Because people have somewhere to get to and they're always on the go. There is no slow, leisurely walking here. People have places to go. They're always busy, always engaged. Because there are four movie theaters within walking distance from my house. Because Famke Jannsen lives on my block and she is fucking gorgeous. That woman is a six foot tall smokeshow and when I see her walking to the bodegs she always grins. Because I'll never, ever, ever run out of shitty, future-less artists to piss my parents off with. Because all my best friends are here, and they love it as much as I do, and sometimes we'll go out and spend the whole night just laughing and drinking and being happy to be in just the greatest fucking place on the planet. I mean that sincerely. No matter what, I will always have New York, and we'll never leave each other. If I could marry this goddamn city I would, in a fucking heartbeat. Life could be soooooooooo, so much worse.

I love you. Seriously. I fucking love you so much, New York.

I blame the gayness of this post on the fact that it's the new year and I'm feeling all inspired to change my life and start fresh. Also I've just endured a few weeks of parental torture and I am finally free to be back to normal and alone with the city I love. Promise that by the next post I'll be the crabby bitch on wheels you all know and love.

Happy New Year, everyone!