I hope that reading my writing makes you feel like I've just given you a hug. If it doesn't, e-mail me, and I'll have to give you one in person.

Friday night was my last in New York, so after some tearful goodbyes I took a cab over the Brooklyn Bridge by myself. I cranked Cat Power way up on my iPod and swiveled my neck to watch the Manhattan skyline fading behind me. Due to the humidity and the onset of spring, the air was sweeter than it usually is in the city. It was 1am and I was in a cab to Brooklyn to see a friend and it was my last night in New York and for a handful of minutes I felt 18 again. Feeling 18 is the same as feeling overwhelmed with possibility, as if there is light coming from your fingertips and sparks erupt with the lightest touch. On the bridge I watched the blinking lights fade and I sobbed uncontrollably. It just seemed like something I needed to do.

Later I found myself in Bed Stuy at my friend Seb’s apartment. I met Seb through my ex-boyfriend, and I strangely feel kindred with him in a way you only feel with a handful of people in your life. Sometimes I wish we had met under different circumstances, because when people ask how I know him–which they did frequently last night–I hate to be the “girl who used to date his best friend.” It makes me feel unsubstantial in some way. They all say, “We went to Brown together,” “We work together,” and I nod and say in a very small voice something like, “His best friend broke up with me for another girl.” Only I don’t say that, not really. I say that I met him through my ex-boyfriend, or if I don’t feel like explaining it I just say, “we have mutual friends.”

Seb has a magnetism that seems to only attract the best kind of people, people with both an astounding amount of intellectual and emotional hunger. He has so effortlessly surrounded himself with the kind of interesting, genuine people that you seem to only find in novels, and even in novels you might be unable to suspend your disbelief enough to buy into their characters. One of the party guests was a neuroscience researcher at Brown; in the 80’s his father had developed a controversial EEG treatment for OCD, because his son–the boy with whom I conversed–suffered from the disorder. “The treatment is fringe,” he shrugged, “but it was the only thing that could keep me from washing my hands 20 times a day.”

I talked with two 20 year olds whose favorite authors were still, honestly, Bukowski and Kerouac. I loved that they weren’t embarrassed to admit to that in the way college has taught me to be! We debated whether or not writing fiction is lying, and they almost got me to agree with them that it’s not. I think I was feeling congenial from all the beer I’d consumed. I could tell by the way they squared their shoulders that they thought I might sleep with them, and they were sending silent signals between each other to try to discern which one it would be. Boys who are 20 think they have an equal opportunity to sleep with every woman who smiles at them and that the only thing they have to figure out is which one gets the prize; it never occurs to them that the women have an equal choice in the matter. When Seb came over and I casually slipped my arm around him, they frowned. I told them my last few boyfriends were no younger than 30. “The last girl I dated was 26,” said the one with red hair and chicklet teeth. “I just get along better with older women.” Nodding, I swigged my beer.

Another man was a Systems Administrator at a finance firm and told me he was totally passionless about his work. He had a concept for a Linux equivalent to the Google TV model, and had decided to put in his two week’s notice on Monday to channel all his time and energy into his idea. When I called him brave for quitting his job and pursuing his dream, he seemed skeptical of my analysis. I can’t wait to move to a place where my genuineness is not automatically greeted with skepticism! There’s a difference between flattery and saying nice things to people because you genuinely believe them. I don’t think many young New Yorkers have figured that out yet. Or maybe we just don’t say nice things to each other enough.

One man there knew my ex-boyfriend; they had worked together at the same open source software company. On the roof he told me his name while the skyline behind him dripped in fog.

I pulled on a cigarette. “Oh…,” I said and looked up at the sky trying to place him.
“I know who you are. I know Jeff,” he said.

For some reason, my knees went slack. I was at a party thrown by someone I had met because of Jeff, but it was somehow still a shock to meet someone other than Seb who knew him. “I haven’t talked to him since he left the company in February, but Seb told me who you are.” He was handsome and so sweet, but for a grueling five minutes I thought I might honestly start to cry. When I remembered it was my last night in New York, I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. In the mirror I looked at myself and shook out all my muscles and then climbed the stairs back up to the roof.

The night came to a close around 4am when I called a car to take me back to Manhattan. Riding over the Manhattan Bridge I felt a bizarre feeling of unfocused gratitude overwhelm me. I owe so much of my own emotional growth to New York, to the fact that I’ve become the person I am in New York. I’m by no means a perfect person, I’m not even always a good person. That I’m flawed is what makes me human, and these past few years in New York have taught me just that: not only how to be human, but how to be me.

Thank you, New York, you awful town. I’m going to miss you like hell.

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