I want NYC so badly. My soul cries. Younger me clenches tight. My neck hurts. Hell, my entire body aches. I’ve developed a part-time eating disorder and a twitch. But that won’t deter my focus, not even for a second. What about yours?
You think you want it badly? Work hard enough, and you’ll get it. Just remember the Universe gives you exactly what you asked for –nothing more, nothing less. So when you say you want it: are you ready for the hustle impatiently awaiting to swallow you whole? Are you ready for the “hardships” you were “warned” about. New York is a tough city. Think you can handle it? Think you can leave Mommy’s care, comfort and cradle?
New York will chew you up and spit you out before you can request an Uber back to said cradle. Are you ready to have your lash extensions plucked out, or your primped nails stripped bare? The answer is yes. Only the broken survive. Unless of course you have a trust fund inheritance, and in which case, this post isn’t for you.
Only the determined pull miracles out of their asses to ninja chop their way out of the web of obstacles cynically placed for one's breakage. Imagine, in one week – aka a New York Month –those luxuries you’re used to (thanks to your stage home, small town upbringing) di-sa-fucking-pear. Pouf! Gone. Welcome to a life where washer/dryer are no longer prerequisites but fifth on your wish list because, clean bathroom please.
Life is hard. Everything. Is. Hard. Laundry and groceries, although seemingly simple tasks magically conducted from an app, require organization and effort. Being a New Yorker takes skill and a shit ton of adulting, all of which further spin your already spun head into what you can only hope isn’t permanent whiplash damage.
NYC is real. Real money dangled like a dream at every corner. Then again, eclipsed by real poverty if you don’t watch your fucking step off the MTA tracks. Real hardships. Real dreams – the same as everyone else just like you. You may be Daddy’s Little Girl, but no, you ain’t special.
The special ones are the relentless ones. The special ones are the ambitious ones persevering against all odds –and that web of obstacles. But that’s not you. Daddy is still paying for your Mercedez that’s pulling your ass up to the bottle reservation at Trendster Douche Club so you can flirt with fuck-boys and a life you don’t really have. Oh, and that Benz also drove your post-yoga self home after your 9-5 workday. LOL at 5 p.m.
New York doesn’t sleep and neither will you if you give an ounce of a shit. Buh-bye Tulum tan. Oh hey, brown bags! Don’t kid yourself –they’re not Celine. They live under your eye ducts full of tears. And most likely, they’re recycled from Morton Williams and doubling as your garbage can, because turns out, you’re too fucking poor now to buy one even if it’s on $27.95 on Amazon Prime.
In 2017, Millennial Girls got smart: we know those chick flicks are full of shit. We know that storyline is like, a fairy tale. But you know what you didn’t see coming? The New York landscape decked in a Valencia filter blurring out all the guck. Yes, guck. We live in squalor. What did you think 8 million self-centered, American Dream pursuing people piled on top of each other would live in? How can anyone pick up after themselves if their tunnel vision is zoomed so far up their own asses? Sure, strangers seem nice, but only if they sense the New York in you. So don’t kid yourself, Tourist.
The un-woke voice of our generation, Lena Dunham from TV show GIRLS, depicts Chinatown dive joints as “ cute”. That hole in the wall is exactly that: a HOLE IN A WALL, and it’s barely even C grade, which basically means, eat there and commit to a life of hepatitis.
Couture ads with a subway backdrop? You can’t smell the piss or see the shit-stained seat that was justifiably photoshopped out. You do realize you’re walking into some homeless guy’s humble abode, right? ZIKA at this point is the least of your worries because lice and bed bugs cohabitate every surface and are on standby waiting to pounce on you. And your pores... It’s a damn shame you can only dream of a facial. Your credit card is maxed from groceries and Malboros; the only luxury you have left.
I’m not sorry I’m harsh. It’s the truth, and I actually give a shit to forewarn you. I’ve always believed in sparing people from pain. And now, I’m sparing you from the pain you don’t deserve. You don’t deserve it because you’re not worthy of it.
The best part is the beauty in the struggle, and you can’t see the beauty if you’re not meant for the struggle. Hell, the love for that beauty is the only reason I’m still alive. Twitching, maybe, but tough AF. New York badge of merit, I guess. So, if I’m pissing you off, good. Accept the challenge of proving me wrong –and go be great.