April 22, 2010:
Maybe I could find a nice copywriting job – something modest to start. Or I could be one of those inner-city teachers. English. Maybe art. Anything. Just to be in New York. It’s the perfect place for someone in pain. All sorts of distractions imaginable and nobody looks down on you for doing things by yourself. In fact, it seems encouraged, if not plainly understood.
It didn’t seem right to live there with him anyway, as once suggested. First of all, he’d probably shrivel up and die in that environment. But it doesn’t seem like a place where you bring a relationship. It’s not this joyful, make-believe, cushioned world necessary to protect ‘love’. It’s for singular soldiers. People with aims and ambitions who aren’t afraid to fight for them. People accustomed to sacrifices; used to working hard, and getting little in return.
I’m moving to New York.
I wrote the above well over a year ago now. This has been a long time coming. The city might eat me alive as I’m sure it does many a young brunette ingenue, but I’d rather get eaten alive by New York than bored to death by Connecticut. At least I’ve got the spine to try it. I’m so tired of the spineless. It’s quite a plague around these parts. In fact, I think for many denizens of the Nutmeg state this crippling spine-devouring disease starts before the spine has even had the chance to fully form. Pity, but perhaps it’s just natural selection.