I’m trying to pack for New York…I should have done this months ago. Honestly, I never should have unpacked but I did and now I appear to be stuck here. This happens to me whenever I come home. I seem to latch on to this idea of happiness in anonymity.
Maybe I don’t need to make some big name for myself. Maybe I don’t need to live in New York City. Maybe I don’t need to put in appearances at soul-sucking hotel bar parties. Maybe I can just sneak into Brooklyn under the radar and live a relatively normal life.
I don’t want to subscribe to the fashion dream life. Poppin’ bottles in whatever cars, over whomever’s titties, BBMing on banquets, vodka/soda with a cranberry splash. vomit. I don’t want to have to dress up every night in fantastic outfits and parade around Manhattan like one of those ensemble hipster fashion gangs. One model/one stylist/one DJ/one party promoter/one token rich guy to finance it all and one blogger to make sure everyone on the outside knows just what they’re missing out on by not being on the guest list. It’s the predictable pop-bottles angle.
I don’t really know where I fit in; I never fit in that world, but I was always present. Maybe I could be the sober friend who takes notes on cunt-y looks we get from rival fashion gangs so they remember who to hate the next day. The whole idea of going somewhere to be seen sets my heart aflutter with anxiety, and is followed by a familiar urge to stare unwaveringly into the floorboards.
I thought that sobriety would curb this; and I would feel comfortable in social situations [a little more so] as a result——but it had the opposite effect. I’ve become hyper aware of my actions and the reactions of others. I spend entire nights watching the edges of peoples mouths twitch, eyes roll, eyebrows arch; looking for tells as to what people are really thinking. Apparently, this is symptomatic of my auditory processing disorder, which is typically confused with ADD or generally ‘not giving a fuck’…which is another sunny disposition I’ve been known to adopt.
I would prefer just to bypass it all and get an apartment in Brooklyn with wooden floors and some reddish exposed brick. Have a giant projection movie wall, give a home to my well traveled book collection, and lay roots with a substantial vintage wardrobe. My substantial vintage wardrobe——I have one——it just lives at my parents house. Sad & unfulfilled.
Will I ever get around to packing this life up and releasing it into the wild of Brooklyn? I fucking hope, man. It’s been years of rambling and no roots. I feel like I need a home. An answer to the question ‘so, where are you based…?’