The oldest living girl in New York

So I did it. Packed up the station wagon, threw in some New Order and drove across this god-forsaken country to New York.

At least that's my romanticized version. The drunken packing the night before with my friends as psychotic packers/whythefuckareyoukeepingthisyoudumbbitch naggers and the frantic runs to UPS are better representatives of what my move was actually like, but now that I'm here and relatively settled, I can say safely say the following:

1) I love my fucking job. I actually like coming in to work in the morning (and not in a sappy, shuffly lying way). I'm doing what I like to do best (write) for an organization that actually helps people and pays me for what I do (as opposed to the other copywriting jobs that expect you to be a copywriter, salesperson and graphic designer for below minimum wage). And, my boss wholeheartedly shares my love of the colon (the punctuation mark, not the organ).

2) I love the neighborhood where I work. The intersection of E. 28th Street and 5th Avenue is this strange mix of Kenyan vendors peddling sparkly purses, 20 year-olds with lego-like hair running to 5th Avenue in power suits and old men sitting on milk crates smoking in early morning sun. The street smells like coffee, falafel, shit, mothballs, sweat and perfume, which helps to mask the pervasive parmesan encrusted foot smell that seems to permeate the sidewalks of New York.

3) My Woody Allenesque moments of sheer panic and self-deprecation somehow seem all the more justified when I'm in the front of yet another "world famous" New York diner or underground on the R line.

4) New York supermarkets and delis still carry Tab Cola. And everyone here loves bacon.

5) Fashion. Music. Art. Fashion.

6) My inner monologue has changed its voice from a fake British/Jamaican accent to a full-on Queens slur. It gets me places quicker.

7) My only regret thus far seems to be my recurring anger at being born so late, and not being a teenager during the early 80s. Especially in New York. I keep meeting people that were glammed out teens who got to see the early days of the Talking Heads and run around the Chelsea flea market looking for cookie jars with Warhol.

8) There are little doggies in the window at a pet store on the corner of Gay Street. Unfortunately, while I can confirm that they are indeed doggies, I do not know how much they cost.

9) I actually feel like I could run into people like Neil Tennant or Fidel Castro in an elevator or a greasy diner.

10) Did I mention the bacon?

Stay tuned for more handbags (not too many- my wardrobe isn't that large) and fags (a lot more- everyone here smokes).