Philly Magic Gardens
My brightly painted gold nails have been busying themselves on my keyboard — the right fourth finger working harder than the rest as it pounds on ‘Backspace’ like a cheap piece of meat that needs tenderizing. It’s a sign that I’ve become jaded.
The normalcy I’ve come to expect includes amazing friends that fly over for the weekend to celebrate my birthday with me, weekend trips to Philly with the gang for no other reason than that we’ve never been, saying bon voyage to incredible travellers stopping through the city who I will live vicariously through as they find love behind waterfalls, and spending at least one night a week doing something only found in New York whether it be a Broadway show or silk rope class in Brooklyn. Spoiled.
So where do I go from here? When you know that someone would fly across the world to go on a date with you, can you go out someone who won’t even hop a bus for the weekend? When your friends are so awesome that they’ll go along with whatever comes your way until you find yourself at a house party with 20 young French men before venturing to a rave on top of a garage in the middle of nowhere, can you sit still through a boring conversation about how “interesting” a restaurant name is when it’s really rather unremarkable and the food is just as bland? The answer is no. The answer is that once a celebrity and his entourage have invited you over for beers on a rooftop, you expect that every time you climb a set of stairs to the roof there will be a celebrity waiting for you talking about cheese. The conclusion is that New York has spoiled me rotten and I don’t know what to write because I’ve lost touch with what’s worth writing about.
Here are some pictures from Philly instead:
