I am one of those New Yorkers who feverishly loves the city. I don’t care that she’s loud. I don’t care that she’s exorbitantly expensive. I don’t care that she’s the sole reason I haven’t acquired normal adult things: a home, an in-unit washer and dryer, a dishwasher, a child. I don’t care how many times she robs me of my finances, my dignity, my sense of safety and security in the world. I don’t care that her seedy bars and top-tier eateries and charming drug dealers regularly kick the shit out of my body, mind and spirit. Like all abused women blinded by lust; I just can’t stay away. New York is daddy and daddy beats me ‘cause he loves me. Also: I’m a glutton for life. And one day in New York City harbors more life than a decade spent anywhere else. My high school best friend and hairstylist to the stars, Owen Gould, once told me that the reason he loves living in New York so much is because it’s the one place in the world he never dreads returning to, even after a long blissful vacation free of responsibility. He moved to LA last month. But that’s beside the point. Or maybe that’s precisely the point? I think about all of this as I stare out the window of the plane, swollen organs wrapping themselves into tiny intricate knots, pending doom curling heavily into my lap, like a fat cat that isn’t mine.
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