Tag Archives: new_york

Battles, part I

I would like to preface this post by informing all of you that I do not consider myself to be a violent person. I’ve never been in a fight, and I like pretty much everyone ever. All that aside, every so often I experience violent feelings towards certain groups of people or individuals. In those moments, all I want to do is battle. Here’s a list of battles:

BATTLE #1 – Tiffany VERSUS Models (aka – Waify bitches)

Weapon of choice – My Sam Edelman spiky heels

Venue – Cobblestone streets of the meatpacking district

New York is chock-full of waify bitches. Most of the time, the sight of one or two waify bitches riding the subway or staring hungrily at the bottle of water in my hand doesn’t stir violent urges within me. My general disposition towards skinny New York women ranges from, “Wow. I really need to workout more,” to, “That bitch anorexic!” These are totally harmless emotions, but when I walk around the meatpacking district and I see perfectly dressed, delicately styled models in droves, my immediate instinct is to kick off my shoes and chase after them, stiletto first. I feel the need to protect my ego from their impossibly tiny waists and inner thighs that are so far from touching.


BATTLE #2 – Tiffany VERSUS People who are too big for their airplane seat

Weapon of choice: Brass elbows or, if necessary, my deformed tailbone.

Venue: The airplane

I just love this movie, so any excuse to bring it up is good with me.

I get that some people are bigger, and that’s totally fine. I, however, don’t appreciate big people using their bigness to overpower my tinyness and get some of MY airplane seat. Sure, you have really broad shoulders. I don’t believe that they render you incapable of crossing your arms at any point during the flight! That is not a recognized medical condition! Do you really need to completely spill over into my seat so that I need to lean INTO the aisle to accommodate your elephantine frame? This does not seem fair, given that I take up approximately 3/4 of my seat space, and very willingly concede the armrest to my fellow seatmate.

Yes, I am familiar with the adage, give them an inch and they’ll take up the entire airplane, but every time it happens I am nonetheless incensed. What the behemoth seated next to me doesn’t know is that in 8th grade, someone pulled a chair out from under me and I fell on a concrete floor. I didn’t break my tailbone, but instead I distorted in in such a way that sitting in the same position for any extended period of time is agonizing. Every moment that the mammoth extremities of my seatmate cause me further discomfort, every cell within my compact form is filling up with venemous rage.

Yes, in theory, the projected winner of this battle is the bigger person, who could easily squash me. IN THEORY. In reality, once squashed, I will roll over and my deformed tailbone will unleash a world of spiny and confusing hurt. Also, I’m considering getting brass elbows for international fights. I don’t THINK I’d get in trouble at security and as a Ludacris fan nothing would be more exciting than actually throwing some bows.

BATTLE #3 – Tiffany VERSUS People who look at that chair I’m saving like they’re going to take it

Weapon of choice: The chair, duh

If for no other reason than to justify my usage of the chair. It’s rare that anyone gives me the stink eye for holding a chair, because I think the awkwardness of being in a busy place and holding a chair is a universally recognized feeling. But every so often, someone starts circling, opening their mouth as if they might ask… Or, even worse, inching towards the chair like they could peaceably take it over.
I want to be like, dude, I am sitting here holding a chair waiting for someone. That is my only activity. There’s no other activity that could possibly take my attention off the chair.

That may also be what makes me want to battle in these moments. At least battling wouldn’t be boring.

This post got too long. To be continued…

Peace, Love and come back soon for some more battles, 


PS – Update: You can read Part II here.

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What Granny Wants

My love of the subway grows with every passing day. It’s so full of gifts… Or, in this case, gift suggestions:

This Christmas, why don’t you give granny some dick? Satisfaction guaranteed. 

While I’m pretty sure that DNAinfo.com wasn’t meaning to insinuate that we should all go out and get our Nanas laid, it certainly looks like that’s their suggestion… Am I right?

So, a couple things here:

1. Taking pictures of subway ads is harder than it looks, y’all: PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS SITTING IN FRONT OF THE GOOD PICTURES! And do you know how hard it is to be like, “Oh no, don’t worry, old dude who doesn’t speak English, I’m not taking a pic of you but I can’t explain that to you. No, woman who is clearly more conservative than I am, I’m not interested in a pic of you, it’s just that the poster above your head… I can make a crude sexual joke with it – don’t you see that it’s… no?” 

2. Also the people who believe that taking a picture of them will steal their soulThis is really a sub-point to point one, but I’m writing this on a Friday, so I don’t care. I think I learned about these people from an episode of Batman: The Animated Series when I was in like 8th grade, because I watched children’s cartoons until an embarrassing age, but every time I take a photo I am terrified that one of soul stealing religious people is going to attack me or something. And you thought YOU had irrational fears…

3. WTF is DNAinfo.com? Not what you think it is, I can assure you of that. It’s like a TimeOut knock off or something. Right now its number one story is that Santacon is this weekend. Thanks… Are you my Facebook minifeed?

4. Salami is the #4 thing grandma wants? Oh my god, what kind of degenerate grandmothers do the execs at this agency have?

Here’s what’s happening in my brain right now:

Chris says this isn’t really what Enron did… but whatevs.

Yeah, that’s right. Powerpoint doesn’t recognize glock as a word.

At a certain point even the darkest of Grannies has to want an age-appropriate gift… Right? 

Peace, love and get your Memaw something reasonable you weirdos, 


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“Let’s be honest, we’re still going to be getting this drunk in our 30s.”
“Fair… But eventually we’ll have kids and settle down.”
“Nah, we’ll just be drunk around the kids.”

New York is often hailed as the epicenter of arrested development – the perfect little petri dish for nurturing one’s bad choices and self-obsession. It’s so true, and it’s exactly why so many people sigh and say, “Oh, New York… What a great place to be young.” It’s exactly why so many of the married and child-rearing move outside the city to places like Ohio, or Jersey City.

When I first moved here, one of my friends referred to the city as The Adult Playground. I didn’t exactly know what to expect from that description, but I liked the phrase so much that I’d bounce up and down yelling, “Adult playgrounddddddddd!” every time we walked down the street doing something New York-y.

My first night out as a New York resident, I ventured down to Alphabet City. I’d never been to the East Side, but I’d heard Alphabet City in so many of my friends’ cool new York stories.

“They have a bar that’s camping-themed! You can get s’mores there!!”

I love s’mores. 

As I walked up the subway stairs to the fabled city, I had high hopes that here I’d find The Adult Playground. I assumed that Avenue A was a grown-up-fucking-Candyland; the streets would be lined with sex, they’d lead me through the magical forest of illegal substances down to the river of sample sales and never-ending happy hours.

I ended up in a 200 square foot AC-less basement apartment. I drank grape juice mixed with some old vodka out of a cup that had definitely not been washed since its previous use and got hit on by a guy whose hard sell was that he could fix my guitar for free. When I got home I threw up on my American apparel dress.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is exactly what it’s like to live in The Adult Playground. Sure, you might have a job, and a life, and a bunch of other things you use to justify that you’re different than you were in college, but you know you’re just one happy hour invite away from waking up at 4 AM in your bed, next to the wrapper or something you assume you ate, but you’re not sure what it was, and a bunch of missed calls from your coworkers and/or friends. Even the most responsible New Yorkers I know have stories like this… It’s not us, it’s New York! We promise.

As you may know from Facebook, I’ve requested the help of all of you in providing me with solid examples of life in the playground. I don’t feel that simply explaining what it’s like is enough, so here are items I’ve pulled from your emails, gchats, AIM, texts, conversations, etc, etc, etc. Don’t worry, I’ve changed identifying details – thank you all so much for helping me out!

Here’s what it’s like to be a 20nothing in New York City. If you’d like to turn this into a drinking game, take a shot every time you see the word ‘drunk’:

1: did you have a good night?
2: yeah i did
worked out a tiny bit, but not much
then we made dinner and ate pot lollipops which was fun
1: do those really really work?
2: ehhh
we ate two and i felt a little relaxed
and like, body high-ish
we also had had some wine
but i didn’t feel drunk
so I think it worked?
I was a bouncer at a series of parties that had a reputation for getting VERY out of hand. Fifty percent of the time the cops shut the party down before 1am. One night in particular we used a Venue called “Castle V”. It was owned by a 50-year-old who called himself Vox Illuminati. Vox may have had a few screws loose. We were setting up before the party when the FNDY and NYPD, who’d gotten wind of the party, came by to give us a friendly warning that if the party happened it would be shut down. This friendly conversation ended in Vox screaming “You’re going to tell ME WHAT TO DO?!?!?! I WILL END YOU!!!!!” while the terrified looking FDNY fire inspector quickly ran out the door.
1: so
a couple thing
that you’ll find funny
i’m still drunk
just walked into work late ‘ from my doctors appt’
I assumed he was as unserious about the plans we made as I was, but I forgot he probably wasn’t drunk on a Tuesday.”
Email, attempting to attend a party: Last week they sent me home when my cold became too conspicuous.  Maybe I can be conspicuously drunk and they’ll send me home for that too.

We talked for a few minutes, and I gathered that she was quite wealthy, just from the way she rambled on about her dad and his jet, yacht, etc. I must have really hit it off with her, because I was invited out for a night on the town with her and her friends. “I don’t have any nice clothes…” was the best excuse I could muster. Her reply? “Fuck that, we run this city.” And with that, we set off.
We made it back to her suite on 5th Avenue at about 6:30 in the morning. I slept for about 45 minutes, and then woke up to her, out-of-her-mind and yelling that it was time for me to go to work. She said my ride would be ready in about ten minutes. It was a helicopter. No shit. I hate helicopters. I puked. I got back to my hotel, showered, changed clothes, and went to my meeting.
1: how was your weekend boo?
I was laughing thinking about fri
so fun!
2: seriously!
until all the sudden i was too drunk and Manuele, who I’ve never spoken to before and I don’t think he speaks English, was trying to convince me to come home with him
and i was like NO. what?! NO
1: SHUT your mouth
2: so Susie pushed me in a cab and i went home and got sick
1: OMG
are you alright?
2: yeah, luckily when i’m too drunk my reaction is to leave immediately…
it’s the one smart thing i do
My friend was throwing a “Dance Party at the End of the World” event, in which he’d crafted a dance mix, interspersed with Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. We were to dress in our 1920’s finest, and the drink menu was strickly gin martinis. I have an unfortunate (impressive?) ability to appear only slightly intoxicated when I am in fact bordering on black out drunk. I don’t slur my words, but had anyone known how far gone I was, they would’ve been watching me. I joined my friend outside to have a cigarette, and before I knew it I was agreeing to share a cab with her back uptown. Without my bag. Without my keys. Without my phone… Dressed in only a black velvet gown and duster.
1: How was the night?
2: Oh you know… drunk emailed my boss…. drunk emailed that guy I was dating earlier in the summer.
1: Ohhhhhh, and?
2: It wasn’t bad though. I was just drunk-eating something he likes, so it reminded me of him.
1: Justifiable.
Needless to say, the cops did come to shut the party down at about 11 PM. Instead of opening the doors for the cops when they came knocking, Vox made the bouncers lock and barricade the only entrance to the building. A 30 minute stand-off ensued while Vox stood behind the door, screaming obscenities at the cops. This was ended by an FDNY latter truck lifting 2 FDNY fire fighters, and 6 cops in the bucket onto the roof. When Vox saw this he jumped out one of the windows, onto the neighboring roof, and then ran across to a tree, where he hid from the police for 2 hours.
I got into my building because the outside door never locked properly, but it turned out my roommate was visiting his family in NJ. I spent the night (which dropped down to 12 degrees) shivering, drunk, crying, kicking the door, and dozing in our stairwell. And that’s why I don’t drink gin martinis.
The road may not be paved with adderall, and gingerbread houses would result in terrifying rat infestations, but we do live in the closest thing to an adult playground I can imagine. It’s pretty fantastic.
Peace, love and Candyland, 
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No, Bowlmor. Just… No.

As you know, subway posters are an endless source of entertainment to me. This morning as I was riding the train and feeling angry about the fact that I didn’t win last night’s $550 million dollar lottery drawing, I suddenly realized I was staring at this terrible advertisement for Bowlmor.

Who goes bowling in a cocktail dress?

Ohhh, look! They’re having so much fun bowling!

BUT WAIT. Take a closer look –


“Getting jumped in an alley has never been THIS much fun…”?!?!?!

I’m pretty sure this conversation has never occurred in the history of anything EVER.

Guy walks into a bar, guy has a black eye and his jacket is ripped up. 

Guy’s Friend – “DUDE! What happened?? Are you ok?”

Guy – “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got jumped in the alley on my way here from work.”

Guy’s Friend – “Oh, shit man…. So… How was it?” 

Guy – “You know, I’ve had better.”


I am using a lot of exclamation points, I know. But that’s because this ad is a total fail and I’m still pissed about the fact that I didn’t magically become a millionaire last night. I’m directing my anger towards Bowlmor. They deserve it.

Bowlmor people, if for some reason you happen across this post, I’ve designed a new poster for your Spring campaign.
I think you’re going to LOVE it.

Original photo courtesy of http://www.kravchicks.org. I think your site is serious, Krav Chicks, I’m sorry.

Angry, angry, and still angry about the lotto results, 


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Survival backpacks

Sunday, 11/4
Email from my dad:

So, now that you’ve lived through a real storm, my supplies don’t seem so nerdy, do they?

Goddamnit. I hate when he’s right. When I was in high school, my dad came home one day with four red backpacks, one for each car.

“Put this in your trunk and DO NOT take it out.” He then unloaded one of the bags onto the kitchen table. He pulled out a rope, water purification tablets, vacuum packed astronaut food, a flashlight, flares, a space blanket and a book with a picture of someone’s butt in 90’s mom jeans and The Art of Keeping Your Ass Alive! splashed across the cover.

My father had purchased survival backpacks for us to keep in our cars in case we ever ended up stranded somewhere. It’s super sweet and fatherly, but at age sixteen I was like, “OMG dad. We live in Sandy Springs. What am I going to fall into a ravine in between McMansions and lose cellphone service?”

He explained that it was better to be prepared than not and then I asked him if he included the book for some reading in case I got bored in the ravine. He did not laugh. A brief tutorial on items most necessary to our survival followed shortly thereafter… My little brother and I had way too much fun provoking our father during the tutorial.

“What is the number one reason people die in the wild?”
“Because they don’t have a space blanket!!!”
Giant sigh, “No, because they don’t have rope.”

There was a reason the number one cause of trapped-in-the-wild deaths is lack of rope, but I don’t remember it. All I know is if I’m ever in a fight-or-flight situation, I’ll be all, WHERE THE FUCK IS MY ROPE?!?”

My dad was totally serious about these survival backpacks. Any time he’d find one in the garage he’d immediately figure out who’d tried to ditch theirs and reprimand us. I didn’t ever see the value in the bag, but found it to be a great conversation piece anytime someone opened up my trunk, and I figured at some point astronaut food could be cool so it stayed there until I finally sold that car.

Last week I got a brief taste of what it’s like to need a survival backpack. Sure, the situation in Manhattan was in no way dire, but realizing that I don’t so much as own a flashlight was a reminder of my complete lack of disaster preparation. Living in a city doesn’t make you conscious of the elements. I’m conditioned to hold my keys in between my fingers late at night so I can stab an attacker in the eye, but the closest thing I have to a “wilderness” skills is my ability to light a cigarette with a match when it’s windy out.

Ok, enough about how I need to ask my dad to mail me that backpack so I can wear it everywhere… In other news, completely dark lower Manhattan was eerie, but for me (who had power), it was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Chris and I sat on the steps of a church on 7th street and drank wine in the dark while watching the cops circle the block.

Blacked out Flatiron building

After that we found a ramen restaurant that was open and running in candlelight.
We made friends with four other people and hatched a plan to meet up anytime there was a not-so-dangerous natural disaster.

Pork bun by candlelight

We spent hours debating whether or not it was ok to open the freezer and hung out with all my friends who took refuge at our powered, wifi-equipped apartment.

As with any storm, memories were made, like the renegade West Village Halloween parade. Powerless Manhattan is one of my first experiences here that made me feel like I’ve lived a piece of this city’s history.

Of course, while Manhattan is nearly back to normal, there are still so many people who need help and I would be remiss to not remind everyone of ways to support those in need of disaster relief from near of far. So here are some links:

Red Cross
NYC Service

Also, for anyone in need of survival backpacks, I found this link. It’s not my dad’s exact backpack, but it’s close…

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Two terms we coined last night

1. ADDj (noun): When the DJ is so drunk he changes every song after the first verse, and switches between genres with reckless abandon.

“Why have we heard the first verse of The Whistle Song remixed into Sweet Home Alabama five times in the past hour?”
“Blame the ADDj. He’s behind the bar using two iPod Nanos to control his set list and making out with some girl who keeps coming up to the bar and taking shots.” 

2. Elbrow (verb): The act of repeatedly elbowing the person behind you in a crowded bar, but not noticing because you’re too busy fist-pumping with your bros.

“Ok, I think it’s time to leave Penny Farthing. I keep getting elbrowed and it sounds like the ADDj is about to transition from this Jay-Z song into Sweet Caroline. We should probably run.” 

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Brooklyn Bowl

“Are you actually British?”

Ever since two of my friends pretended to be British for an entire night as a ploy to get free drinks from guys, I don’t trust that people I meet are actually British.

“Yes… We are actually British.”

I’d stepped outside Brooklyn Bowl to try to buy a cigarette from someone. For some reason, once in Brooklyn I decided that I should ask if I could purchase a cigarette, rather than ask if I could bum one. I don’t know if that’s an indication of how I feel about Brooklyn or a result of the fact that for once I had money in my wallet. Either way, the British guys I met outside the venue would not let me purchase a cigarette, but gave me one for free… God bless them.

First I met Alistair Robinson (his real name, no joke!), who commented on the fact that we both have a lot of hair.

“WE COULD START A WIG COMPANY!!!” We yelled this in unison… Insta-friends. Really anytime someone wants to start a company that’s sure to fail with me, we become insta-friends. Then his friend Dan took over the conversation while Alistair went to find the ‘toilet.’ We had the usual conversation you have with British people about how Americans call it the ‘restroom’, haha, isn’t that funny, you don’t rest in there, what about the water closet? Oh you mean the WC? Cultural differences. OMG so fun!! 

Dan and I talked about how I mispronounced his name (“It’s Dahhhhn”), how he wasn’t from London (it turns out that not all British people are from London!) and then he started saying something about Americans and nationalism and I remembered that Chris was ordering food inside. At some point Dan accidentally head-butted me and I told him it’s ok, in America that’s like a handshake. I then promised him that I’d bring him a chicken wing even though I was uncertain as to whether or not Chris had ordered chicken wings (it’s like 3 to 1 odds in any drinking/dining scenario).

When I got inside Chris had not ordered chicken wings, but Dan came by and I have him a nacho. He head-butted me and then told me he loved me. Seriously, insta-friends with both of the British dudes.

Ok, here’s the part where I rate the venue.

If you haven’t been reading so long that you remember how it works, here’s how it works:

  • I go to a bar/club/venue.
  • I take pictures that are usually blurry because I’m a bad photographer/ have only an iphone/ am usually embarrassingly drunk.
  • I rate the club on a scale created entirely by me, using my criteria for going out. Keep in mind that I have the preferences of a 65 year old antisocial man, that my favorite bar is housed in a building that once caught on fire and no one evacuated, and that I usually write these lists in a state of still-drunk hangover while yelling that I could really use a mimosa right now.
  • Sometimes the list is disjointed because I lose focus searching seamless web to see if they deliver mimosas.
  • Based on my entirely made up scale, I calculate the score, most of the time incorrectly (re:hangover), and then completely disregard said score and give the place a rating of Best or Worst Club Ever based on my overall opinion.

Brooklyn Bowl:

In Brooklyn: -500 points

Cool stamp: +5 Points. Please disregard other stamps, the one we’re focusing on is the bowling pin stamp, even though the heart stamp is also quite cute.

Bouncer who didn’t take too long to inspect my passport: +20 Points. It’s a fucking passport people. Who gets a fake ID that’s a passport?

Mexican/Tribal-looking bowling pins: +30 points, and also some clapping and bouncing.

Potential for meeting new friends: +50 points. Seriously, those British dudes were awesome.

Number of Black Eyed Peas songs played (0): +27 points. The Black Eyed Peas are the worst. Every time “I Got A Feeling” plays, a puppy is euthanized.

Bad band that we had fun making fun of played: +52. I love every time the a band tries to be Kings of Leon post Brian Eno. There are only so many ways to rewrite old U2 songs, guys.

Bands that were good played:  +43. There were also good bands, probably because of CMJ.

I don’t know the name of the band but if they were on Pandora I wouldn’t skip their song.

Not having to bowl: +76. I didn’t have to bowl, which is awesome because I suck at and hate bowling.

Wishing I could have watched other people bowl: -32. I do wish I could have watched other people bowl while eating my nachos or listening to music. I guess you can’t have it all (without risking getting hit in the head with a bowling ball).

Not getting hit in the head with a bowling ball: +100. Well done, Brooklyn Bowl. I am like a magnet when it comes to injuries. The fact that I didn’t end up in the emergency room while drinking near heavy objects is a true testament of your risk-management team’s planning skills. I applaud you.

This thing: 

+8 points

One time I saw a fight between a Hasidic Jew and a bro from Jersey at Brooklyn Bowl: +78 points. It happened the last time I was there, but is definitely worth mentioning. Both got kicked out. It was totally the bro’s fault. It was totally awesome.

Having enough people in our group to take a cab (rather than the L) back: +700 points.

Final rating for Brooklyn Bowl: Best Club Ever

Brooklyn Bowl, come for the music (or bowling), stay for the food and friends and/or fights you might see between Hasidic Jews and bros, leave when you have enough people to split a cab ride back to Manhattan.

Drunk pirouettes by Chris and Mark. No idea why they did that…

Peace, love and happy Saturday,


PS – If you’d like tips on how to use a fake British accent to get drinks from dudes, please comment. I will tell you everything.

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New Chapters

To achieve a great goal, one must begin with a small achievement. -Columbia Cottage fortune cookie

Above is a picture of the fortune I got the night before I interviewed for my job at the Flower Company. That night Austin and I went to the Chinese restaurant in Morningside Heights that gives its patrons free wine. I went over my interview spiel for Austin; I’d never applied for a grown-up person job before so I was terrified, but then I got that fortune and I knew I was going to get the job.

I don’t take fortune cookie wisdom lightly – I keep fortunes that I think mean something in my wallet so that I’m reminded of where I am in my life. In a way, they feel like titles to each chapter of my life.

I realized about six months ago that my current job was a dead end. If I were to stay at the Flower Company, I would forever remain the smiley, happy, patient, customer service representative who was secretly dying on the inside. I absolutely hated my life for those six months because there’s nothing fun about trying to explain how to use a website to an 80-year-old woman if you know that’s it’s not a stepping stone to some greater job. Customer Service has a high burnout rate, but I’m actually surprised it doesn’t have a high suicide rate, because oh my fucking god it can be so awful.

So I found a new job. One that I’m really excited about. This was my first time job searching for reals, and I couldn’t believe how confusing and overwhelming the process of interviewing, considering and deciding on offers is. But, I did it! I promised myself on New Year’s that I would no longer be a customer service person by the summer and I actually accomplished the goal. It’s a great feeling.

Ok, so not all fortunes are worth keeping… I got this one last Thanksgiving, right around the time I was deciding to leave my job.

I say all this stuff as a preface to talking about what my first year and a half in New York was like… I ran away from Georgia, and all my problems with my two best friends in hopes of finding stability. I wanted a quiet, simple life up here. That’s not why people move to New York. People move here to be The Best, or to find adventures, or at least to enjoy their 20s.

My first year and a half here was like getting bitch slapped over and over again with an AM New York. It was so hard, and I doubted myself and every decision I’ve ever made constantly. I had my heart broken twice during that time; first by my boyfriend and second by my job. Living in New York makes you wish you were thinner, hotter, richer, more successful and every other thing you hope you’ll be but are ok with not being when you live basically anywhere else. I didn’t look at the NYC skyline and think “I made it,” I looked at it and thought about all the ways I failed.

The other day I took a cab from Kennedy to my apartment after visiting my family in Mexico and quitting my shitty customer service job. I felt so excited to see the skyline and know that I live here. I’m entering this new chapter of my life, and all I feel is lucky. It might be terrifying, disappointing, or awful… but I’ve realized in the past few months a benefit to life in New York: There’s always a new chapter to start, always a new beginning if you choose to grab it.

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