A sudden and unexpected move to a new place has left me longing for my beloved Brooklyn. (To be clear, Brooklyn the borough, though the the lovely Brooklyn is beloved by us all no less).
I am back in Manhattan, the 6 train to Harlem links me from my office perched above the Museum of Sex to my new digs in a high rise in Upper Manhattan.
But, le sigh, the change comes with a necessary, but nevetheless sad/heartwrenching/painful, breakup. So it's back to the old relationship drawing board. Time to clink around in the haunted house of my mind with my psychoanalyst. Figure out what motherly offense left me with the Mick Jagger affliction: I can't get no satisfaction.
But for now, the ex gets the old apartment. And the borough I lured her to, away from Manhattan's stacks on stacks on stacks of concrete. I taught her how to love dive bars, and the flea, and drinking beer while your clothes tumble in the dryer across the street. And the uneven slate sidewalk where she stubbed her toe in flip-flops on the night we moved in and screamed: "This would never happen in Manhattan!" And every time the C train and the F train stranded us in our outer borough for the weekend, she said the same thing. We made killer omelets over hangovers. Had great sex all the time. But she wasn't my one. I wasn't her one.
But for now, she gets Brooklyn in the breakup.
Positives: The new building has a gym! And a doorman, and elevators, which kind of makes me feel like I live in a hotel. I even used one of those bellhop cart thingies to move in my clothes and boxes. The livingroom leads to a balcony. My roommate is a yoga instructor who makes instructional videos on how to increase sexual power. I can run 10 blocks to Central Park, and bam, I'm in Central Park.
But my building is surrounded by buildings. I miss my kitchen's view of the Williamsburg Bank Clock Tower. I miss running over the Brooklyn Bridge. The familiar dives.
County of Kings, you will have me back some day. And I will have you. Because, as far as homes go, you are my one. And I am yours.
Love,
M
I am back in Manhattan, the 6 train to Harlem links me from my office perched above the Museum of Sex to my new digs in a high rise in Upper Manhattan.
But, le sigh, the change comes with a necessary, but nevetheless sad/heartwrenching/painful, breakup. So it's back to the old relationship drawing board. Time to clink around in the haunted house of my mind with my psychoanalyst. Figure out what motherly offense left me with the Mick Jagger affliction: I can't get no satisfaction.
But for now, the ex gets the old apartment. And the borough I lured her to, away from Manhattan's stacks on stacks on stacks of concrete. I taught her how to love dive bars, and the flea, and drinking beer while your clothes tumble in the dryer across the street. And the uneven slate sidewalk where she stubbed her toe in flip-flops on the night we moved in and screamed: "This would never happen in Manhattan!" And every time the C train and the F train stranded us in our outer borough for the weekend, she said the same thing. We made killer omelets over hangovers. Had great sex all the time. But she wasn't my one. I wasn't her one.
But for now, she gets Brooklyn in the breakup.
Positives: The new building has a gym! And a doorman, and elevators, which kind of makes me feel like I live in a hotel. I even used one of those bellhop cart thingies to move in my clothes and boxes. The livingroom leads to a balcony. My roommate is a yoga instructor who makes instructional videos on how to increase sexual power. I can run 10 blocks to Central Park, and bam, I'm in Central Park.
But my building is surrounded by buildings. I miss my kitchen's view of the Williamsburg Bank Clock Tower. I miss running over the Brooklyn Bridge. The familiar dives.
County of Kings, you will have me back some day. And I will have you. Because, as far as homes go, you are my one. And I am yours.
Love,
M
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My very first Tweet referenced the Jagger affliction except I noted that in these modern times, it's called the no pussy blues.