I’ve been treating New York like an ex-lover that I’m ashamed to still be sleeping with: continuing to use and abuse it, while complaining about it profusely to anyone who will listen. In the last 48 hours, though, I’ve had what you might call a come to Jesus moment (the Jesus in question being one who shops at Atelier and drinks eight cups of black coffee a day).
A trip to Brooklyn results in a little sartorial nausea, courtesy of the trying-so-hard-to-be-hip transplants crawling out of every nook and cranny. On the other hand, my native-to-NYC friend doesn’t seem to be trying much at all, and blows them out of the water.
Chicago is the Michelle Branch Video That Nurtures My Soul (Or, How We Project Different #Feelings onto Different Locales)
As I’m sure is the case for all you other brothers, specific places are symbolic for me and can ignite particular moods via the simple fact of their existence. Chicago is my geographical equivalent of a giant hug, or perhaps that counterintuitive relief we feel after a body-rattling cry.
A sordid tale of attempting to be productive on a Saturday in New York City, involving a heavy dose of the gift that keeps on giving: PDA.