It’s a bizarre feeling to be a phantom of a certain town, especially when that town is Bushwick. It isn’t exactly a place to “grow old” in New York, so much as surrender to the perma-child phenomenon. But one doesn’t think about this when she first moves to this town, somewhere in her early to mid 20s. It’s just a reflex, really. Just like it becomes a reflex to adhere to the thirty-something exodus when the time comes.
Unless, somehow, you don’t surrender to the number that is your age and find yourself in some strange abyss of new generation youths that you simply can’t relate to anymore. They’re all very melba and unhardened, and this really doesn’t speak to all the shit you’ve seen and been through in this town. They’re still wide-eyed and trying to convince themselves that having a cube job is “making it” in New York.
But you know better. You’ve lived the reality, and you can see how it’s all going to unravel for them. And yet, they’ll probably be smart enough to move back to Bumfuck, USA when they’ve had their Joan Didion “Goodbye to All That” moment. Some of us, however, are damned to live a Dorian Gray-like existence in Bushwick for all eternity or until we die of alcohol poisoning. Sure, we’d love to leave, but where else can we go now? And who will give us the money for first, last and security to move to the city where things are decidedly more “adult”?
Written by Genna Rivieccio