Hey, New York. You, The Big Apple. I'm talking to you. I gave you thirteen intense years of my life. What have you ever done for me?
Like thousands of other New Yorkers I bust my balls day in day out working for the man, trying to survive while keeping The Dream alive, living paycheck to paycheck, hoping that one day an unknown wealthy relative who lives in an old mansion on the Upper East Side is going to pass away and leave me millions of dollars. I know it’s not going to happen, just like I know I’ll never become a rock star. But somehow the dream lives on, embarrassingly enough.
The money in my bank account doesn't reflect my talent nor does it reflect my effort nor does it reflect the amount of hours I work a week. What does it reflect? EXCELLENT QUESTION. The answer is complicated, and would involve a particular level of theoretical explanation I’m not really patient enough to delve into right now. But one thing is certain: I POUR MY BODY AND SOUL INTO THIS CITY. I AM ONE OF THE THOUSANDS OF HARD-WORKING PEOPLE WHO MAKES NEW YORK… NEW YORK. NEW YORK FUCKING CITY. And I get almost nothing in return. I barely get a “Thank You”.
AND I’LL PROBABLY NEVER BE ABLE TO OWN “MY OWN HOME” IN THIS CITY. (I have standards; I am not in the financial position nor the right state of mind to attempt to purchase a studio apartment in the far reaches of Brooklyn for over $400,000, which is probably the best I’d be able to afford in this city. I love NYC a lot, but I am also not stupid. I refuse to be what they call a ‘house poor’ home owner.)
So what’s next? Do I abandon this strangely exciting place and go somewhere normal and boring, just so I can own my home and have a little bit of money in my savings account? Is that what needs to happen? New York, why are you willing to break up with me so easily? I thought this was true love. What did I do wrong? I may not be a rock star (yet), but I am pretty damn good at what I do! Is this really goodbye? Will you ever reward me for being… me?