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New York, An Ironic Place

New York, An Ironic Place

There’s a weird sense of irony that New York possesses. I’ve always dreamed of living here; it always seemed that the grass (or concrete, rather) was so much better up here. Is it? In some ways, possibly. In other ways, I realized that I shouldn’t despise the suburbs so much- fresh air isn’t so bad after all.

New York is the place where people are so overworked that their dreams turn into dread, and life becomes as stale as their last 30-something cigarettes. New York is also the place where you can meet Grace Coddington on the street, and where you can end up working for someone whose name can be found in an article by The New Yorker. Here, dropping an iconic name is about as casual as dropping your cigarette butt on the ground- and they both burn out fast, fast, fast. Welcome to the Concrete Jungle.

There are also many misconceptions about New York City. One of which being that once fully assimilated into the city, you are completely inhibited of all senses of socialization, courtesy, and decency. And while there are people here who need so badly to get laid and take a yoga class, I have also met more genuinely kind people here than I have anywhere else, except for maybe the Cayman Islands. Island people are just generally friendly people ( I guess New Yorkers are islanders of their own sorts, except the water is all polluted and fruit costs $3 a pound). And, as I was lugging around my hefty wheelie duffle- the glorified internship bag- filled with 20 pound garment bags (bless you, Gucci), I was amazed at how many people came up to help me. I still ended up pulling my shoulder that day, but the handsome preppy-bois who lifted my bag over the turnstile (it wouldn’t fit through) did lend me a great deal of help that day. The man had some great oxford shoes.

Anyways, I hope to never feel as exhausted from life as some people seem to be here, and I hope that my dreams never evolve into something that makes me feel anything but aspiration. I hope to never become worn, or at least not until I’ve lived out everything I could’ve possibly dreamed to. I hope that I cross paths with Grace Coddington again, and I really hope I also get to meet Ellen DeGeneres in the future. I’m sure Ellen has an apartment here, somewhere.

xx Julia B.

 

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