how you know that you are a real New Yorker

I love New York with it’s weird puddles when there hasn’t been any rain, it’s judgment of you based on your footwear choice and it’s fine sense of the ridiculous. I feel like New York is often lovingly vitriolic, just like Martha in “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?” But at times, I hate it’s every changing nature. Things move so fast and so slow here. You blink and your favorite bar/restaurant/discount clothing store is gone. That is how you know that you are a real New Yorker.

When what used to be there matters to you more than what is there now.

When this dive bar that I loved so much, passed so many early evenings, post electropop band practice knocking back Stoli Vanilla and Sodas with lime transformed into….

This charming date place…

It’s a completely different atmosphere. I was thrown at first when I walked in. I knew that this used to be something else, a place that mattered to me a lot, but I couldn’t quite place it. It came on slow. Remembering sweaty nights, poor choices and friendly bonding all white washed over into a supremely art directed experience. The older me, loves this place. The cheeses, the oysters and the choice wines. But there’s a little noise in the back of my head that misses the summer nights at the dive bar when I’d get up to get a drink and the back of my legs stuck to the vinyl seats, tear up with a satisfying sting. A sharp pull at my skin in contrast to the soft drunk I was.

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