From as far back as I can remember, I lived to write. On September 18, 2012 I moved from San Francisco to New York in hopes that I could write to LIVE. Please join me in my mis/adventures as I digest life in the Big Apple.
It’s official: I miss San Francisco.
It all started on October 7th. The Niners had a game, and the Giants were playing at AT&T Park. It was also Fleet Week, the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, the Castro St. Fair, Columbus Day Parade, and America’s Cup amongst other things. It was one of those days I would sleep early the night before in preparation. Like my girl said, we wouldn’t be in the middle of the fuckery – we would BE the fuckery.
I spent the day scrolling through Instagram thinking to myself, I should be there. I would’ve been there. Except. I wasn’t. I was in a cutty ass sports bar somewhere in Long Island with NY Giants and Yankees fans. And although I was having fun with great company, I still wasn’t home.
I realized I left the city and people I love during my favorite time of the year: Indian summer and Orange October. Most people I know moved from SF to run away from something/someone. Or because it was too small or too slow or they were just plain tired of it. Not me. I guess I left, so that I could live an even better life once I came back.
Consequently, seeing how much fun all my friends in the Bay are having only makes me want to stay in New York even more. It forces me to focus on my writing. It reminds me of why I moved to begin with. Next to nothing else would be worth me leaving the people I love. So even though I should’ve been there, I know that I have to be here.