I should have told You before talking in terms of Forever...

(...that any given day wears me out and works me sour.-- Buddy Wakefield.)

Today, I want to punch New York City in the fucking face.

I lived there for almost six years. I never left, except for quick 4-day trips home for Christmas and birthdays. For five years I had Thanksgiving and Easter there' for five (plus) years I barely left the five boroughs.

My last year in New York was not a happy one. Graduating college in the year 2011 was no pleasure trip, believe me. I had friend issues, family issues, money issues upon money issues, and regardless of my kick-ass resumé, no one wanted to hire me. For four years I took New York, chewed it, and spit it out to make it my own. That last year it attacked me. It rope-a-doped me into fetal-position submission, and even now I'm not fully 100% recovered. This change had nothing to do with the city; I can see now it had everything to do with me: My journey, my mistakes, my decisions. But I couldn't help but feel NYC had changed for me, too.

I had spent most of my time in the Village, in the wonderful below-14th street world, where you can believe that dreams come true and history is alive in every step. My life post-graduate was lived between Flatiron and Midtown, crammed in the streets of 18th street between Park and Broadway and 45th Street between FDR and 1st Ave. (and also 28th street between 6th and 7th, but I like it there...the Flower District is quite lovely, in any time of year. Plus the bubble man lives there, and he makes any life bearable.)

Midtown, for those that don't live in New York, really sucks. It's impersonal, it usually smells, and business people doing businessy things in businessy ways ruin everything. Midtown is not my New York.

But I find myself wanting to dropkick NYC because even though the past year I spent in agony living there...I find myself living in Paris, in the 17éme arrondissement, fresh from a great French dinner and a great weekend in general....I find myself missing New York more than ever. It hurts. I miss it.

I picture the Union Square metro station--easily the most accessible portal to hell--and I know I'm supposed to be there. Why am I not there? I should be sitting on a bench on the Highline, doing a crossword puzzle with my friend Danny, and eating a overpriced hot-dog because I still can never say no.

I should be at Benny's, drinking a whale's worth of tequila and relishing in the fact they know my name, even though that's probably a bad thing.

Benny's, at night, when the waits are long but the margaritas are strong.

I should be grabbing Taco Bell in Union Square, and listening to the rap battles that take place right outside, knowing that I should probably hold on to any bag I may be carrying because this Taco Bell gets extremely, uncontrollably ghetto sometimes.

I should be in Battery Park with Rachel, watching the sunset and talking about our present, our futures, and our dinners that night, contemplating how we got to this city and why we can never seem to leave it. I did leave it; I dream every single day of going back.

I should be in Red Hook eating lobster, because I never got to actually do that. I just hate Brooklyn so much, but only because Brooklyn doesn't love me back.

I should be spouting off directions for the subway system to tourists, because I know it better than I know my own extended family. And I should probably be cursing the subway too, because the times I got a seat during normal people hours were few and far between. And I should be cursing the Prince Street stop on the NQR. What a horrible, horrible station.

I should be on Cedar Hill, Central Park. I should be pretending to do homework, but instead, basking in a quick sunset over the Upper East Side, the strong sunlight on my face and the wind always just a bit too chilly.

Cedar Hill

I should be there. But I'm not. And I'll probably never move back. I'm a mover, a tumbleweed. It's hard for me to reconcile living in one place when there is so much world to see.

 Maybe Paris will be the same. It has the potential, if I'd let it. This month marks six months since I've left New York. Maybe it's finally time to let go; Jack Dawson this shit and move on.

Varick Street. University Place. Hudson. West 11. West 10. York. East End. West End. Amsterdam. Columbus. Park Avenue (but only north of the MedLife building). The platform at Astoria Blvd. The Brooklyn Promenade. The Brooklyn Bridge. Houston Street from Hudson to the East River. Fulton Street. Greenwich Ave. Irving Place during Christmas Time. Lafayette Street, when it's wide enough to feel like you can conquer the whole sky. The view of Manhattan from Gabby's apartment. Josie Woods.