The only living girl in New York

It's hard not to admit that I, along with countless other performing art hopefuls, dreamed of going to New York in search of fame and glory on the stage. Broadway still glitters the way it did three years ago, my first time in the city, and Times Square is still rampant with Batmans and Elmos and Pooh Bears - not to mention people (which is certainly forgivable. It was, afterall, Black Friday [read: hell on earth]). But this time, unlike in my eager and ambitious youth, I looked around with skepticism, cynicism, and a sort of bittersweet disgust.

Yes, the adrenaline was pumping, and yes, I reveled in the throngs of people and colours surrounding me, but I found myself growing more and more uncomfortable, and I daresay repulsed, as my friend and I turned every corner. My tipping point was the 3-storey, metal, industrial-themed, futuristic space-aged McDonald's. On every wall there were projected music videos of who-the-hell-knows Hillary Duff? Ashlee Simpson? and a mess-hall like atmosphere that for some reason infuriated me. If a Starbucks had been in there, I would have hurled.


I'm being melodramatic. It may have been because I had spent a few days taking it easy in Amherst, Brooklyn, and Long Island before finally venturing into the city that I was so acutely overwhelmed that night. Or it could've been a bad sausage dog. Too many Sweedish Fish, perhaps. But after a short lifetime of being in love with a city I had never seen, after finally experiencing it at 17, and even now, after half a dozen or so visits, I confess I'm still in the middle of a lustful, torrid affair with the blazing lights.

The next day, I fainted on the subway.