Every time I read another story/book/blog entry about New York and how it is/is not how so-and-so imagined it, I want to hit someone. There are people who live like the people do in movies and chick lit based in New York. These are rich people. And even they are deluding themselves and playing characters based only slightly in reality. Most of the people in New York are so boringly normal, that life here becomes one unending cycle of workweek followed by boozy weekend followed by workweek followed by yeah, another boozy weekend where I sit on my couch thinking of what I’d be doing if I had money. If I’ve just gotten paid, and it’s not time to pay rent yet, I’ll go to brunch. One week later, when my bank account is overdrawn (oops, bills, student loans) I’ll regret the brunch choice and instead opt for Maxwell House and a half-ass omelette that I like to call “Scramble Surprise” because I can never get it to retain its ideal omelette form. Then my friends call to "go out for drinks!" and I try to decide if I can smuggle the seven leftover beers from New Year's in my purse because come on, paying $3 per drink is highway robbery.
Where was I. Yes. Boring. Normal. Work sucks for everyone unless you are getting paid a cajillion dollars to appear at parties or “design” a fashion label or do something else incredibly stupid that makes people like me jealous and angry that they weren’t born braindead so they wouldn’t have to witness it. People envy me my job until I tell them how much I make, where I’m going with it (nowhere) and exactly how many words of pornographic filth I have to wade through daily to try to make something that doesn’t completely suck your soul out.
I want to write a book where a girl has no huge expectations, beyond an unrealistic relationship ideal, moves to New York, sinks lower in debt, hates her job, does the same things every weekend with the same people, and can’t afford brunch three out of four weekends in the month. Unfortunately, not everyone is me, and most of those people that aren’t me are rich, comparatively, so they’ll be fine, and I will still hate them, especially when they publish that saucy piece of trashy literature where their character has “problems” but still manages to wear designer shit every day, even if their mean old boss does yell at them sometimes. Boo hoo. Buy me brunch.
If you can’t tell, I’m bitter that I didn’t win $390 million the other day.
