“You move to New York City when you’re twenty-two years old. And your most beloved pastime is walking through downtown, alone. You’re subletting a room with furniture but no windows in some blah-and-expensive neighborhood, and you own exactly one pair of blue jeans and one black cotton t-shirt that don’t make you feel ugly, but you’ve never been more inspired. All the flower shops, all the drop-off laundries! So you forage for cuter apartments and noteworthier shoes, and you invest all your attention in reading about the city. Like, reading restaurant write-ups in New York magazine. Which you can’t really afford because you still haven’t gotten your first paycheck. And you read free museum newsletters, and bizzaro nightclub fliers, and the personals in the Village Voice. And you’re always how many months behind on telephoning your friends? But you sit in a cafe off 2nd Avenue and write them messages on the backs of weird free postcards that you got from the dirty rack by the cafe’s bathroom.
And everyone at home is like, ‘You look so cosmopolitan.’ Which just makes you feel worse, because you see how far you are from being cosmopolitan, and it’s embarrassing that your family can’t see it too. And you realize you moved here because you wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t nowhere, and if you don’t want to be nowhere, you’re going to have to stay here forever. And you’ll never make it, you’ll never be able to leave, because this is not where you’re from.”
Maynard and Jennica