was posted in a link on gawker this morning.
When I read this at the age of 21, and only at the behest of a non-fiction writing teacher in college, I rolled my eyes and wondered what all the fuss was about, and I think I skimmed to the end, and wished someone would give me something to read that MEANT something.
And then I moved to New York, chased a boy around the Strand, and kissed him in the rain, and was broke, and broken hearted, occasionally. And left and came back even more broke. And worked shitty jobs for crazy guys at sketchy retail establishments and glossy temp firms. And discovered the dirty corners of the activists world, which seemed both better and worse than any other parts of New York I had been in, until I was broken for real and done with it. And then decided, at 28, to move to Guam.
And I always thought, at the very least, I could turn all my myriad adventures into a weary-eyed tale of hard-fought wisdom about the way things are.
But, if I had paid better attention in my non-fiction writing class, I probably could have forgone all of that.
I have always gotten the feeling that I am walking through one long series of cliches, which I am experiencing slowly and painfully, one day at a time. This does not help.
But still, it's a lovely essay.
And I'm glad that I came to it, and New York honestly.
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