Facebook keeps asking me what my relationship status is, which I find to be completely disrespectful. I do. A couple of days ago I noticed that my most recent ex-and I say this lightly because recent could be eh a year plus or minus a few months- just got engaged. I tweeted saying how I was able to breathe a massive sigh of relief at the fact that I had escaped that emotional and traumatic terror known as engagement.
Oh, but I do digress.
I lost a follower or two somewhere circa that comment, and while I’m sad that my follower count has gone from 500 to 498, but who’s counting, I am appreciative that said person who doesn’t understand or appreciate my dry humor has voluntarily kicked themselves to the curb.
RIP.
It’s been ages since I last wrote something on my blog- thanks Demond for reminding me how awful of a writer I am, and I will happily state that I have been busy living life and documenting said bouts of experimental and enjoyable living on Instagram. I started working, quite diligently might I add, at my new job and recall a conversation between my mother and I a few weeks ago in which I blatantly said, “If I could find a guy that I loved as much as my job, I would be the happiest person in New York.” My hyperbolic tendencies needn’t be overlooked with that statement.
Within the time that I last wrote a post, I also joined an unnamed hipster/nerd band. I’m unsure of how it started, like all great things, but alas I haven’t been living as exceptionally as now, when I can put my slightly neurotic thoughts deeply rooted in British hipsterism and Harry Potter-isms into lyrics and create a monster even more sordid and cultivated than myself.
Jokes aside- I feel quite settled in New York, relatively speaking, and have begun the process of finding parts of myself that I had covered up whilst in the Midwest. I’m a freak. No, not like the girls in the Tip Drill video; rather someone who marvels in the opportunity to chat about the meaning behind my Sylvia Plath tattoo at a law school party, someone who on multiple occasions has spoken solely in rap lyrics with coworkers, someone who makes friends with homeless people and gets thrown money.
I really should tell that story.
A few weeks ago (I really have no conception of time in New York City) I got really drunk at a networking event, rightfully so, and after schomoozing and boozing, I traversed from West Village to East Village- my work ‘hood- to take the express train back to Brooklyn. I met a homeless man named Peter, and we chatted about the book I recently finished- Down and Out in Paris and London by Orwell. After about 15 minutes of socialist rant, I told Peter that my debit card had been compromised (true story) and that I only had $10 on me until I got my new card in the mail, or had time to venture to the bank; and, reaching into my pocket, I handed Peter my last $10. He quite literally yelled at me for giving him my last ten dollars, and started pulling dollar bills out of his pocket and handing them to me. Yes, this is a true story. I told Peter I would only accept a dollar so I could buy a street taco for dinner; he refused and forced another dollar in my pocket. We hugged it out and I bid him well.
That’s pretty much how my New York life is- a compilation of moments that make no sense to me, and probably never will. I’m much happier here, despite Facebook constantly asking me to validate my relationship status. If I could be in a relationship with my New York-self, that’s what I would do. However, Facebook doesn’t have an option for that. Yet.
In the interim of writing Zuckerburg an angry letter and solidifying my relationship status with myself, I will work on sorting out a band name. Suggestions are recommended, encouraged even. Unless they are stupid, and then I will personally send you an email quite similar to the deranged sorority girl email.
We all have it in us.
We do.
Kristyn Potter 