You thought visiting New York City would make you feel cool, but actually it makes you feel poor and un-busy.
You thought it would be sooooo different from the rest of America.
But really it’s the same, just better.
People talk like movies.
And the street names and landmarks are recognizable from your favorite CBS crime dramas.
Jogging through Central Park is a cliche, like everything else you do here.
Going to museums and making ‘hmmm’ sounds
does not diminish the fact that you went to MoMA primarily to scout for Facebook cover photos.
And that Prospect Park was a 585-acre struggle not to shout ‘why are you so fucking twee?!’ at the dogs and their walkers.
And that, fuck the locals, tall buildings are amazing and you’re going to stop every few steps to capture them.
You’re acutely aware that everything you can say or do or think in this place is already said, done, thunked.
So instead of trying anything new, you might as well spend it like a week at home.
See friends, eat meals,
take long bike rides as dangerous as they are destinationless,
take pictures of pedestrian shit like snowblowers, mouth open like some kind of Appalachian.
You don’t see everything,
Or maybe even anything.
But you realize as you leave, you were busy after all. And maybe even rich.