So This is New York

So this is the big dream. Here I am, now how to begin?

I moved to New York City two years ago, and people tell me I should be happy because I achieved the dream. Whatever. I held an outdated image of what New York should be, a yellowing photo in stark contrast to the modern city.

I was supposed to live in the Village, near St. Marks, I was supposed to be in with the punks. According to plan, I would have had a tattoo by now, have been published in several literary journals, be doing the circuits of poetry readings, have a constant supply of hashish and a Rolodex full of modern Beats. I'd be jaded, addicted, platinum Blonde, and wild, fucking wild.
Yes, somewhere in there, I'd get my Bachelors in Creative Writing.

Instead I live in Gramercy, work a shit hourly job, am constantly disgruntled and broke, fucking broke. Shit, I shoulda been a rock star, instead I can't pull enough money together to see a single act, must less smoke hash at the show in a blatant "Fuck You" to the concept of authority, anti-smoking laws, and bouncers.

The sidewalk outside my apartment is littered with empty dime bags and the spray-painted words "RIP Brown." Ambulances run around the neighborhood through the night - why is that kid lying so still in the basketball court, as his friends wave down the flashing red lights? What happened here? The homeless sleep on the streets, the unemployed spend hours on the housing project stoops.

Razor blades and pain killers aren't enough. And to top it off, I'm surrounded by NYU jumpers and white, upper-class Marxist boys with tight wallets telling me about the proletariat.

And yes, I was stupid enough to enroll in a school before checking if it offered a Creative Writing major.

So this is New York. So here I am, sleeping on buses, spending late nights studying Journalism and Politics, in a desperate and mis-guided attempt at having the big dream pan out.

Fame? Talent? Fun? Coke? Shows? Friends? That sudden realization that I'm "living the life?"

The dream is dead.