My days of blogging are numbered.
I've unsubscribed to most of my daily emails providing me the deals on highlights, low lives, haute cuisine, and any other clever puns telling me how to the live or look like I live the perfect life in the city.
I'm throwing away my earmarked magazines singing the praises of the best of New York. These people, places, and events I thought I might encounter; I did.
I've taken to my bed with the classics in hardback at sundown...anything past that is the witching hour.
My new neighbors are very popular drug dealers with a revolving door like the Plaza at high noon.
This has my head in my hands well past four in the morning...every single night.
Good for them.
But I'm tired.
Someone was stabbed in Webster Hall last night. And on Avenue B a few nights ago.
Bloody face crusty punks pace my street dragging their mangy companions, cursing the oppression of the man.
The new manger of the tattoo shop below me sweeps his curb and plants annuals in his window box.
This is nice.
But not enough to mask the vomit splattered at my threshold. A result from yet another drunken violent cat fight last night before both girls got in their car and headed back to Jersey.
Thanks for visiting.
Sure the once skid row called the Bowery is gentrifying at rapid speed.
The reformed neighborhood crack addict owns the Vegan Bakery.
And Alphabet City has turned its notorious Methadone corner.
But New York isn't really changing. And it shouldn't.
I am.
And I am starting to say my goodbyes.
Fo real dis time.
So can I get a little moral support?
I've unsubscribed to most of my daily emails providing me the deals on highlights, low lives, haute cuisine, and any other clever puns telling me how to the live or look like I live the perfect life in the city.
I'm throwing away my earmarked magazines singing the praises of the best of New York. These people, places, and events I thought I might encounter; I did.
I've taken to my bed with the classics in hardback at sundown...anything past that is the witching hour.
My new neighbors are very popular drug dealers with a revolving door like the Plaza at high noon.
This has my head in my hands well past four in the morning...every single night.
Good for them.
But I'm tired.
Someone was stabbed in Webster Hall last night. And on Avenue B a few nights ago.
Bloody face crusty punks pace my street dragging their mangy companions, cursing the oppression of the man.
The new manger of the tattoo shop below me sweeps his curb and plants annuals in his window box.
This is nice.
But not enough to mask the vomit splattered at my threshold. A result from yet another drunken violent cat fight last night before both girls got in their car and headed back to Jersey.
Thanks for visiting.
Sure the once skid row called the Bowery is gentrifying at rapid speed.
The reformed neighborhood crack addict owns the Vegan Bakery.
And Alphabet City has turned its notorious Methadone corner.
But New York isn't really changing. And it shouldn't.
I am.
And I am starting to say my goodbyes.
Fo real dis time.
So can I get a little moral support?
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