The Ex-New Yorker is an interesting specimen. They are, by their own constant affirmation, living their “hashtag best life” far from depravity of the Big Apple. It’s what they repeatedly tell you – always unprompted.
“I can breathe now,” they say. As if New York is a prison where they’re incapable of escaping. Good behavior is not taken into consideration.
“Things are so much better now,” as if justifying their decision to leave a party while it was still going strong. They have no regrets about their decision. They want you, the New Yorker, to cosign. To tell them, all is well, and they did the right thing. But their ex looms too large in myth and memory, dominating every conversation, making it impossible for them to love where they are.
What the ex-New Yorker forgets they do not have a monopoly on hating the city. Complaining here has its own regional flourishes. Who understands the failure of the subway better than someone living near one? Who can identify the screeching of an industrious rat tearing through a dumpster’s daily offerings?
The ex-New Yorker wants absolution from the New Yorker. But it’s not up to us to provide. Nor is it up to God. It’s best left to the Department of Sanitation. Who better than them to deal with a steady spew of recycled talking points?
No comments:
Post a Comment