I can't commit.

I just can't...it was obvious in my quasi-relationship with ed (who did end up calling), and it's evident with my blogging as well. My only stab at an excuse is that I have been "busy". I'm no longer holding down the fort in NYC. Co-op is over, and I've traded in my skirts and starbucks for sweatpants and 7-11. That's right. I'm back at school.

I miss all the pretty people! I miss the Park Ave moms! I miss the swanky soirees in the meatpacking district! (oh, who am I kidding...I rarely left the dive bar mecca of the lower east side)...but I digress, I am now in dirty, nasty, ugly Philadelphia. And it is now time to address some of the people in New York who I have been neglecting.

Dear guy on the 17th floor of my building,
I promise I am not a drug addict. It was 6pm on a Wednesday. You were coming home from work. I was late for happy hour. We reached the elevator at the same time and you were nice enough to hold the door for me, true to elevator etiquette. I was in a fluster as I watched the clock and saw those $2 margaritas dissappearing before my eyes. I tactfully began to rummage through my monsterous bag for my keys, saving precious seconds that would normally have been spent at my apartment door. I located them and flung them out of the purse right before the elevator doors opened. You uncomfortably and suspiciously informed me, "uhhh...I think you dropped something"...I looked down to behold my insulin syringe laying by your feet. I swiftly scooped it up and darted out the doors. I never saw you again, but feel confident that I unjustly still hold a little place in your heart as the girl in the building with a substance problem.

Dear Pan Handler on 53rd and Lex,
Bravo! You really are a great actor, but I am onto you. Everyday at lunch I walked by you hunched over by the lamppost on the corner. You sat there looking slightly emaciated and had a sad sad look in your eyes. Your tattered sign was barely legible, from both it's age and your poor handwriting. I felt bad for you...you truely seemed to be very far down on your luck, even if you weren't "all there". I even considered giving you money for the first couple weeks I worked there
....and then I saw you at 57th and 8th. I didn't recognize you at first...your new get up really made quite a transformation. You went from headcase on the east side, to down on your luck business man on the west. I believe the story you gave me was that you were here for an interview and your wife from rhode island was supposed to pick you up but called and said she was leaving you and closed down your joint bank accounts...or something ridiculous of that nature. You were way more convincing before; stick to the east side, friend.
I thought that might be the end of our run-ins, but just a week or so later, I saw you at a 32nd street deli...buying...LOTTERY TICKETS. Seriously man? I can't even afford lottery tickets. Clearly your act is at least working on someone.

Dear Male roommate,
I hope you are enjoying your new hair color. You weren't my favorite person to live with. I didn't appreciate your threatening to call the cops on my brother and friends, or your declaration that it was "your house." Unfortunately, it's not my problem that you're 27, married, and still living in an apartment with 3 other people under a lease that is not in your name. You're really sort of obsessed with your hair, and I thought you might be growing tired of that drab-yet-mysterious black color your wife is so fond of. It was thoughtful of you to leave said hair in the shower drain for me to admire from a far, and to quickly slam the door in my face when you saw me heading for the bathroom in the mornings. It's also a good thing that you tested out the water first, and spent enough time in there to ensure there was no hot water to burn me. I really enjoyed sharing my shampoo and conditioner with you. I hope they helped give you that shiny smooth look that you were going for. I wanted to leave both bottles as a parting gift for you to use in my absence. I hope the bleach I mixed in there adds a little spice to your life and give you a fresh outlook on your beauty regimine.

...okay so that last part? not true. but one can dream, can't they?
More NYC memories via letter form to come.