New York in a Minute

This was a drafted entry I began writing in May of 2012 ::

"So lately when I get stoned, I freak out about the idea of moving to new york. Thoughts of the huge city and expenses and the phrase "that city is gunna eat you alive" replay over and over in my mind. Like, my heart starts beating super fast, i get all sweaty, my brain is a ping pong game of 'should I? No I can't!' and I feel like i'm gunna pass out... and then i realize i get the same feeling when I have to poop. Then a friend of mine came to visit me last week and she talked me down off my ledge. As we sat in the North End park, looking over skyline of the city I have come to know inside and out, she explained to me "Kimmy, youre gunna do fine" At first I was way too invested in my Oreo cannoli from Mike's Pastries (OMG NOM NOM!) to really pay attention to her pep talk, but then I tuned into to her advice. "Kimmy, you came to Boston six years ago, knowing no one. You made in through college, while maintaining jobs and a social life, and somewhere in between all that, you found a way to travel the world". I mean, I know how awesome I am, but to hear it from someone else made me feel better than this Oreo cannoli (still OMG NOM NOM)"

I never finished the entry. Instead, I made it a reality and made the move from Boston to New York.

I quit my 'dream job' and said goodbye to the city that I like to say that I grew up in. I moved there as a child when I was 18 years old and left as an educated, world traveled, and self sufficient 24 year old. But I still can't manage to make my bed every morning (or month), I never wear matching socks, and I consider a 'home cooked meal' a can of Campbell's soup. And now I'm 25.

I still have a lot to learn in life, and I have a lot to teach life.

So here is a quick break down of my current life...
I stepped foot on the island of Manhattan in late September and landed an apartment 2 blocks from the World's most visited landmark , Time Square. (35 million people a year!)

People are everywhere, TOURIST ARE EVERYWHERE, Naked Cowboys and large cartoon animals are everywhere.

Ever get hit on by Elmo and Mickey Mouse when walking back to your home? I do.

Time Square is the PG-13 version of Sesame Street.

C is not for Cookie. C is for Cigarette

But despite its location, my apartment was a steal! As in, I ONLY pay just over a thousand dollars a month to have a room the size of a closet. Which for New York, it's a goddamn steal!

Oh and wait! For no extra money...A veranda, a patio!



It may not be Buckingham Palace, but it's home to me.
And if it meant living next to a legitimate crack house to have this home, then so be it.
They are actually pretty nice people.
It's the children in the school across the street I gotta watch out for.

I can sit here for days and reminisce about the four months I have been calling New York the place I live, but there is not enough time or space on this blog to compile all the craziness of new friends, jobs, bar nights, boys, street meat, bar days, concerts, playtime in the parks, and the things homeless people have yelled to me on the subway. Those stories will be told in due time.

I will get better about posting the adventures of living in a place where not only are no two days ever the same, but no two hours are ever the same.

Ever.

Dream Team

The question "wanna join our basketball team on monday nights?" should never be asked to me when I am a few brews deep and lacking the need for an interesting social life.

For the past six weeks, I have spent my Monday nights playing a sport that I have no business playing, watching, or having any remote interest in. Remember the time I thought Larry Bird still played for the Celtics?

My basketball career started and ended in the 7th grade, and since then the only shots I have taken have been from a 1oz glass.

Over all, it was a good experience that I will never repeat. Kind of like bungee jumping, only scarier. After every game I got my pep talks "Well, your defense is getting pretty good...".
Oh, you mean how I compared blocking that chick to chasing around a gerbil.
Do gerbils need to be chased?

On our last game, we were down to the final minute, and being crushed by nearly 25 points. "Ok Kim, you can go in now, and we want you to take the last shot"
I have felt mentally challenged plenty times before in my life, but this was for sure top three...5 seconds left, BALLS UP!... and she misses.

Not. even. close.

Ivy league of their own..

On the bus in route to New Haven with a crowd of MIT kiddies in route Yale.

At first I was like "cool! A group of boys that I get to awkwardly stare at in hopes that our interaction will lead beyond the 'is this the line for the 7:15 bus' "

Somewhere around Framingham, I gave up hope that I would be meeting my soul mate on the Mega Bus.

Topics of conversation among the group:
- What was your high school robot club like?
- What was your biggest accomplishment in the 5th grade?
- 9% of my high school went to Harvard. And only 5 kids went to Yale. Most of the hockey team went to Dartmouth.
- Do you guys think that there is laser tag near Yale?!

...well, 9% of my high school have criminal records. Only 5 kids left the state for college. And most of the hockey team wouldn't be able to tell you where Dartmouth is located.

Laser tag was my chance to join the conversation (clearly didn't want to start by bragging about my high school robot club) but I think the Life&Style mag in hand would have blown my cover for lack of intelligence.

At least significant intelligence. I don't think that my knowledge of Kim Kardashians' sex life would help me in a conversation about quantum physics and blah blah blah.

Back to 'Who wore it best' I go.

Nod again!

It happened again. It is a horrible feeling and it totally throws my life for a loop. All the plans I had are now set back and new decisions need to be made. It might be costly depending on whether you can find a good place for transition. You go to sleep thinking you will be home soon and everything will be ok, but then you wake up to a horrible voice saying "Next stop: Northeastern University" Dammit. Third time this week I got on the E line at Science Park and nodded off before I could switch trains at Park St.

Dammit Dammit Dammit.

Dear MBTA: Take that additional $1.70 (x3) and use it to add more C and D lines to the Lechmere stop. Or take it and shove it like you do with the rest of the money you recieve.

aka - Christmas

Here is how St Patty's Day is done.




Wake up, game face on. Pack your bag with all the green clothing you own. Wear a green scarf at work, it shows your coworker that you are not a Debbie Downer around the holidays. However, don't be the guy who shows up in head to toe in all different shades of green. You are not a leprechaun or amusing.



Go to your 9 to 5 and only eat a salad for lunch.

Instead of making your daily required phone calls, spend your day texting everyone you know to meet you at such and such a bar. But remember to change the location of which bar at least once every fifteen minutes, pissing everyone off.

Watch the clock for the rest of the day.

5:30 on the dot and you are out of your fancy clothes and putting on your green eye liner and attire.

Get to the finally decided already incredibly packed bar (at 6pm.) and instantly order a shot of whiskey and 2 bud light drafts, to start.


Since you only ate lettuce all day, the smell from the whiskey should already get you tipsy. Get hit on by the lonely bar creeper and the married man, but still make playful eye contact with the boy you will never have the nerve to talk to.



The beers have now taken their effect.
Raise the volume of your voice and laugh at everything that is not funny.



Try to create a dance floor out of the space between the bar area and the dinning room. You will most likely have no success in getting others to join you. However, you are of course the greatest dancer in all of Boston, so you are ok with owning the floor in your one man show.

A boy will now try to impress you and offer to buy you a drink. You'll accept and ask for a whiskey ginger. He will return with a bud light dollar draft. You will not be shocked, this is Boston and most guys are tools. Drink 'free' beer, and get ready for him to tell you that the next round is on your tab. Run away.




Steal any type of clothing (leprechaun hats, glasses, beads, etc.) from the next person who approaches you. Leave the bar before they can take it back.



Head toward Fanieul Hall. Find a random boy to have a heel clapping contest with you. Own it. Then continue to the next bar.





Cut the line. And when that doesnt work, allow one of your friends to kindly shell out $130 to the bouncer to get the group into the bar.





It's now time to unleash the St. Pattys stickers you had hidden in your wallet. It's a known fact: Everyone loves stickers. You have now made yourself a few new friends. One of which is very unwanted. Relocate to new area in the bar. Create another dance floor. Own it.

Check time. 9:30.

Continue to text everyone you know to come meet you at the new bar but disregard the fact that the line to get in is over an hour long. Minor Details.

Where are all your roommates? One is lost out on Mission Hill, pants shitting drunk, probably crying over chapstick. One is already home cuddled up to a half eaten bag of tortilla chips at her bed side. More importantly, where is your leprechaun hat ? ! ?!

Your time to call it a night is approaching fast. Bring this to the attention of your last man standing friend and she trys to convince you to head to the Fenway area. However, you have had all the green beer you can drink and more phone calls to make at 9AM. You seriously contemplate following her to the next bar with the oh so popular "you only live once" motto.

Convince your self that you believe in reincarnation and promise the next 'you' that you will continue to rage on St. Patricks Day. Proceed to Hynes and wah lah! The C line pulls up right away. You are about to find a nice quiet seat alone to put on you head phones and mellow out to Justin Beiber when your name is called out by bar regulars from your other job.

You have no excuse but to talk to them so you take the opportunity to get into a drunken ramble as to why they should never eat/drink at this place of employment because it is over priced and zero fun sir. They will just nod their heads in amusement, and will not take your bitter advice.

Jump off the T right as they are closing the doors to your stop. You are 'that guy'. Race home, Rape kitchen. Egg white with half a bottle of ketchup, two week old pizza, and lucky charms (keeping the st patricks theme alive til the very end) become the reason for your horrible stomach ache in about 7 hours.

Jump into bed and turn on your 6 favorite F.R.I.E.N.D.S. from New York and remind yourself how cool it is that you bought all ten seasons for $11 in Vietnam. Never gets old, to you at least.

Pass out after 3 minutes, dream of random people you havent seen in years and how they became magicians and live in a studio apartment on Beacon Hill that also turns into the stage on American Idol.

Hit snooze 5 times before waking up. Do a head count in the apartment. Once everyone is accounted for, continue the day as normal.

Spend the T ride to work going through all the text messages from last night, and give yourself a pat on the back if there are no inappropriate ones in the bunch.

Deep breath. You survived.
Now spend the next 48 hours preparing for the parade on Sunday . . .

FEMA

Japan and I have a lot in common these days, besides our 'to the minute' countdown to Comic-Con.


So Japan might have gone and got hit with a chuck of natural disasters, but I went ahead and decided to graduate college. Both life shattering and not an easy clean up.

No 5-minute has remained the same over the past, oh say, 120 hours. That's 5 days for all you mathematically challenged folk, like myself, who needed to use a calculator.

My life is a sand castle. Every time I make a perfectly sculpted tower, an unsupervised child comes running down the beach and kicks it.
I need to start making my castles out of cement.

But I can't do that. Because for me, making decisions is like dribbling a football. Near impossible.

Examples:
- I change my outfit at least 4-6 times before going out, and by going out I mean take out the trash.
- When I go to the movies, I spend at least a half hour standing in the candy aisle at Shaw's, having a battle over Sour Patch Kids or Charleston Chews. You know who wins? ChexMix. And now I have missed the previews.
- One time, I made the lady at Boloco completely remake a burrito because in the 3 minute time span from ordering, I decided that I was no longer in the mood for teriyaki. Or a burrito. Smoothie it is!
- Pen or pencil? Pen or pencil?!

So imagine the tug-o-war game that is being played in my brain with my future career choices and life styles.


Where can I send my resume to apply for a job as 'Hannah Montana' so I can get the best of both worlds...

Ya, I hate your life too.

For the past two weeks, I have been working as a temp at a law office in Downtown Crossings. I have learned a few things in my time here, such as how to make double sided document copies, how to FedEx super confidential paper work, and how to keep my turkey sandwich fresh until lunch time.

All very valuable knowledge, but there is one major life lesson that I will take with me at the end of the week: I am so not cut out for the corporate, suit wearing, stick up my ass world of work.
And that's OK. I can deal with the fact that I will never be rich, I will never be classy, and I will never hate my life.

Last night you (the over worked suits wearing people) were probably enjoying your prime rib dinner at Morton's, while I was happily enjoying my Lucky Charms dinner, which I ate straight from the box walking through Coolidge Corner at 11pm.

You probably went to law school right after college.
I serve burgers and spend my free time watching The Kardashians, or writing about sucker like you.

You might spend your summer weekend sailing on your yacht in the vineyard. Up until 5 minutes ago, I didn't even know how to spell the word 'yacht', so that lets that out.

On the down side, you are probably 40 years old and I feel the need to take an iron to your stressed mess of a face. I have more hair on my left eyebrow (but not my right one) than you have on your head. And when your wife calls, she is an angry little fire breathing dragon.

So maybe I won't get the view of the Boston skyline out an office window. That's ok with me.

For now, I will continue to be your copy bitch and search for my future non-life sucking job on your dime. And blog, about you, on your dime. And if you don't like that, sue me. Your forehead can use another wrinkle.