R U Mine?

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.

Published by Kristyn Potter

Founder of Left Bank Media. Editor of Left Bank Magazine. Copywriter. I write about music, and New York mostly.