Dear New York, I HATE You

20 Sep Dear New York, I HATE You

I love this city, I hate it sometimes, too. In an effort to keep track of my feelings about the Big Apple during my time here I try my best to chronicle them in a letter to this crazy place. Welcome to Dear New York–a series posted monthly on the anniversary of the date I moved here. 

New. York.

I effn’ hate you. You’re supposed to be my friend. You’re supposed to look out for me. Care for me. Instead you have done nothing but rain on my parade constantly.

Today, after a delightful and relaxing post-NYFW manicure with Butter London and superstar nail blogger/stylist Web Haute Jas, you poured on my co-workers and I. Literally. Because of your abrupt tsumani and my fresh blowout, one of my colleagues decides to take one for the team and run into to Sweet Green to get the salads the girls back in the office ordered for everyone. The cab driver threw a fit. Despite the fact that the meter was running and he would in fact be paid for his time, he continued to reprimand the remaining two for making him wait until taking us to the office–our final destination.

When I finally had done enough work in the office that I felt comfortable going home later that day, you started your shenanigans midway through the walk to the NQR that would take me the the 6. I had to duck into a parking garage to save my hair and Marc Jacobs Fran tote filled with my most prized possessions–laptop, camera, Nexus 7, my phone, and you know my history with water and electronics–only to wait for nearly an hour after one man stole man cab.

That didn’t happen just once, no, no, it happened twice more. I am so angry with you, New York. Who does that? Three men stole cabs from me. My hair is frizzing in the back and after all that, my behind still had to walk to the NQR on 32nd Street to take the train home. Soaking wet.

I. Hate. You.

Why would you do this to me? You know that I had a long week. New York Fashion Week exhausted me to no end. Just the day before you were 100 degrees and I was sweating through my clothes trying to make it to shows. Is this how you reward my diligence? Ruin my clothes and hair?

And another thing! Tell the people of your city to learn how to walk on a frickin’ sidewalk. You aren’t the only one with someone to go, dumb girl who can’t text and walk at the same time. You either, couple slowly strolling in high traffic areas. Put a little hustle in your step and get out my dang way. Especially when I’m soaking wet, hungry and exhausted. You won’t, as New York I’m sure now realizes, win.

Now, excuse me. I have to go cry before my roommate gets home.