The new Yorker NycNew York Nyc
N.Y.C. to L.A. to N.Y.C. to L.A., Ad Infinitum
Realizing that New York was a cesspool of shattered dream, I made up my mind that the moment had come for me to move to lovely, sun-drenched Los Angeles. Once I got to L.A. and found that it was creative and had a wizened shell for a spirit and ombré was regarded as the climax of civilization, I took the first airplane back to New York.
So, I purchased a used Prius and went cross-country directly to L.A., because in L.A. they are hiking. During my first trip to L.A. I had to speak to someone who had never even seen Joan Didion and who had received this mastectomy. I tried to hold a wig, but my finger began to bleed, so I stopped.) They went to "generals" and never comeback.
And I knew that I had to return to where the true men were, the men with substances and characters who could understand the struggle. So, I took the clandestine underground from LA to New York. I somehow got there in one go, but it was the midwinter, so I was sitting alone in my flat until early in the morning.
While I was doing this, my fur was falling out and my body was falling off. As I got there, folks were getting a kiss from the hot air and the raging depressed was hardly felt in comparison to New York. When I came back to New York, I was very old. It was too old for the continuous celebration that I thought folks were doing.
It was too old to pretend that I had seen all the stories and heard all the music. Nobody bothered whether I had heard or heard anything, or whether I had even gotten the role of Suprised Waitress No. 2 about her.
Skinneless and Boneless, I shook back to New York, but everyone made me so embarrassed to be a muff.