Dear Diary,
It’s January 3, 2010.
I’ve moved to Greenpoint, a mistake I believe, but one that I had very little choice in the matter of. In three short days I’ve already come to remember why I dislike Brooklyn.
I am starving. There is nothing in my refrigerator except coffee, milk, sugar, and inexplicably- relish. The three cups of coffee drank have only left my stomach feeling hollow and so I brave the twelve blocks to Enid’s restaurant through snow flurries and bitter cold. The wind chill factor of negative three degrees temperature is slapping my face over and over again as if to say, “Welcome to Brooklyn Bitch.” I go inside the restaurant to defrost only to be met by distain from the petulant bartender, “You have two minuets to order before brunch is over.” He said throwing the menus at me. It was 3:20. I didn’t know brunch ended at 3:22pm on Sunday in Brooklyn.
Brooklyn always seemed the younger dumpy sister compared to her elegant elder sister Manhattan. With Manhattan’s je ne c’est quoi, fantastic wardrobe and effortless bed head that alluded she gets laid like concrete combined with her nothing to prove attitude, Brooklyn is pissed and over compensating. “Brooklyn, We Go Hard.” No you don’t, you just go and ask your parents for more money because you’re not making enough as a part time barista, bartender, or bike messenger.
As I walk back home I stare for a moment at the liquor store. I shake my head, “No.” I say, it’s only 4pm. I don’t need to kick off the evening with a bottle of whatever by myself at the apartment, although the former tenant has left a pack of cigarettes, which I am tempted to smoke. I have been listening to far too much Billie Holiday and I feel a smoke and a bottle of vodka would go nicely with my disgruntled former Lower East Side ex-pat New York writer clique I could kick off this winter. I decide against all of it, except the Billie Holiday. Xo M
