Remember two weekends ago how I was inconsolable on the Prospect Expressway about how this city was leaching my very soul of our my bones? Fast forward 14 days and find me on a dance floor off Atlantic Ave in Brooklyn, tearing it UP with NA and AP. When did I learn all the words to the thrift shop song and why am I positively screaming about 20 dollars in my pocket?
Was the best part when AP cast off her horse blanket lesbian therapist scardigan to spend the rest of the night dancing in her unisuit, or was it when we spotted a lesbian that looked exactly like Davy Crockett? Or maybe it was when we all crowed, “girlfriends, screw them, we’re doing this EVERY WEEKEND!” and then texted each other the next day about how all we could do was lie on the couch and ice our aching quads, which had collectively not gotten that low since the late 90s.
New York. It does this to me. The highest highs, the lowest lows. Let me remember this, when I am wishing for a tiny farmhouse in a tiny town. Stiletto – pumps- in – the – CLUB.