New York City chews creatures up and spits them out. Some of us love that so much, we always come back. Or, in my instance, we 
immerse ourselves in rooftop worlds dipped in the central intestines of Manhattan.
I’m broke blog family. It’s ironic that I’m broke, because an angst driven Uni student might call me the 1% and throw paint on me or something. But… like… I live in midtown (insert enormous wide curling grin).
My rent literally exceeds double of what the average monthly mortgage payment is in the United States. Most humans claiming to be rational beings might interject at this stage about “Rah rah, New Yorkers… rah rah money… rah.”
But you know, something about surviving here – manifesting the world that I have – brings me a satisfaction that is truly difficult to describe.
As a little girl, with four big sisters, I always envisioned my life based on a boy. I would find and meet a boy and he would take care of me and we would be happy. I’d stay home feeding babies and writing stories while he went out and earned bread.
This could not be any more inaccurate when it comes to my life. Two weak ass husbands have come and gone and in between their coming and going I have continued to educate myself and seek opportunities and refuse to snap in half regardless of how awkwardly my world has been twisted and bent.
Suddenly I’m a self-sufficent New Yorker, sure there’s no money in my pocket… there’s dry-cleaning that’s overdue… and a warm feeling in my stomach over being chewed up and spit out by this gritty city once again.
I couldn’t be more pleased. I <3 this town.