I don't like the city. When people say, "what a beautiful view! Ain't nothing like the city skyline!" I am in disagreement but do try earnestly to see the beauty. I imagine they see a shiny beacon of human accomplishment. All I see are shades of man-made grey stacking violently into the sky screaming, "look how big my dick is!"
Everyone cowers under its pore-less erection: anxiously shuffling around in bright white sneakers and business suits, traveling underground in angry swarms, huddling over desks blindly raking salad into mouths while desperately trudging through emails.
I try to remember to take deep breaths to soothe the anxiety induced by urban life. In the city, one deep breath is a courageous act. As any New Yorker knows, the risk of inhaling a stinky poo or stale urine is omnipresent. Stale urine is the signature scent of NYC. Bonafide urbanites carry a vile of it when they travel, so they can give it a whiff and remind themselves of where they are from. Nobody can mess with them. They are New Yorkers.