Chicago is home to the cargo short. New York is home to everything else.
Humidity only accelerates the fumes of fish and trash, warring over my apartment from the west and the east, respectively.
Stoic chinese men in white scrubs and rubber boots smoke cigarettes outside the meat processing building across the street from my apartment at all hours of the day.
New York is home of the juice bar full of white macbook-users.
New York is home to a nice man who always sits outside of my apartment and has met my parents. Today I let him use my phone to call his daughter. I’m not sure if he got voicemail or not, I was trying not to listen. She calls me back a couple of hours later to tell me he's been running away from their help ever since his mental break, thank you for calling me back!
New York isn’t home to me, because nowhere is home to me, even when the internet is fast, and here it isn't. Milo raps about fitting in on the internet but I’ve never had such luck.
Friends drift in and out of my apartment as the leaves on the plant I’m watching over wax and wilt in the summer heat.
Burial and Milo and Massive Attack and Portishead and London O’Connor and Shlohmo guide me through the commute with my eyes open and my mind nowhere in particular but particularly absent from the tunnels and their heat and delays.
Bushwick: come for the street art, the sunsets over Manhattan, the $10 six-packs in the bodegas. But the food is pricey and based on this experience I can’t see why people think dive bars are cheap, fun, worth attending. Try to leave on the L train and see it break down, three days in a row, forcing you to walk back to your apartment and bike to work and arrive an hour late, late for the third day in a row. Bike back home and hit a truck and get a nasty bruise that still hasn’t disappeared or even stopped hurting, really, three days later, but it will disappear on the fourth day.
Three days until you leave this place behind for the unknown.
19 days until you’re back where you once knew but you won’t really know it in the same way. You hope you'll still know her in the same way.
Take enough pictures and it will appear you’ve settled in, although you’ve only now realized that you want to leave.
Gentrification is only fun on the tail end, in the beginning you’re overpaying to live in a shitty neighborhood without any amenities. If your parents come to town you’ll be unable to offer them anything: food, no, coffee or tea, no, anywhere to walk, anything to see: no. It just smells like fish and trash and it’s too hot to do anything other than get stoned and lay in the dark.
time to leave