Rarely do I feel bad about the things I do. I smoke, I drink, I don't give a **** what y'all think. Actually, I only drink (in polite company) (polite, is a loose term) but this is a line from a track I like so I thought to cite it here. Anyway, the spectre of world events has forced me into a corner of self-reflection and I don't like what I see.
New York, as I see it, is a ghost town. The stores are empty, restaurants are empty, and people have a look of white-knuckled, quiet panic about them. Conversations with friends, even the twentysomething set, aren't brimming with laughter and possibility (martinis after work? corner office by 30?) instead, everyone is "busy." So no weekend dinners, no boozey nights after work, everyone is busy. Busy panicking.
Like me, for instance. Fresh off my jet set weekend in Puerto Rico I'm looking at my bank statement and I'm saying to myself "how could you be so stupid? The world is falling apart and you're paying $12 for margaritas? You're pushing 30 and live in a rental - what is the matter with you, man?"
Then, in the middle of a frantic work day, I skim the New York Times and find an article bemoaning the plight of down-sized finance types who just can't live on $500,000 a year in this town. I almost sympathized with the characters in the story...and I shop at H&M (sometimes)(OK, a lot). I feel guilty for spending, I feel stupid for thinking I had it made at 25 when I moved in with James and left communal living in the past. What will become of me now?