Don’t Be A Jerk
If New York City was ever in danger of needing a hype man I’d be the first dummy in line, bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel and hot black coffee in hand. Up until seven weeks ago, I was all but convinced that New York was the only place I would or could ever live and that I would probably die with the aforementioned bacon, egg, and cheese/black coffee in hand while crossing Seventh Avenue during rush hour because I’m an aggressive walker and an even more aggressive j-walker.
I am the person who went home and commented on how boring everything else was in comparison to New York. I am guilty of letting friendships from college and high school fall by the wayside because those friends just “didn’t get it,” anymore. I have watched Seinfeld and criticized that they didn’t actually film the show in New York. I cried a little every time I left and breathed deep sighs of conceited contentment upon each return. When you think the entire universe exists on an island that pulsates with anxiety and the breathy pauses of people who will always think they’re better than you, being a jerk becomes the bulk of your personality.
I spent my more formative years believing that constant anxiety is a general state rather than something to work through and that people who speak in cryptic undertones between their breathy pauses are smarter than me. But since I’m a jerk, I didn’t notice these things the way I would otherwise — and why would I, I’m too busy being a jerk.
All this under the banner of happiness. I told myself that my anxiety was just nervousness or even joy. I let some people walk into my life and all over me when they had no business doing so. But I kept telling myself that this is what being in New York meant and, to me, being happy. Assigning happiness to a place is a rookie move.
Anyway the moral of this story is this:
You can be happy anywhere if you stop being a pretentious piece of shit.
P.S. I’m still kind of a jerk. Please be patient with me.
