My City of Sin

Last weekend, I went on (yet another) Vegas trip. If you know me, it's an understatement to say that I frequent the city. There's something about the place that draws me to it. Free from inhibitions, everything goes. But even though you go there to escape, it always turns out to be one oversized UC party anyway.

I just felt like writing my feelings and perspective regarding this city of sin. It's not all fun and games-- in fact near the end of each night, you can probably find me with my head down in a state of contemplation. It's like a comedown when all the thoughts that I ran away from, drowned in alcohol, begin to surface and start to overwhelm. My breathing starts getting deeper and more rapid and my teeth grind together like the rusty parts of a machine running too many years past its prime.

 

How I see Vegas is like a familiar scene from a film. The protagonist, fighting his demons, seeks escape by overindulgence-- whether it's alcohol, sex, or just some sort of obsession. As a spectator, you see that there is no healing in the process, but it's how he gets by. I keep going back because that's how it works. Like a band-aid, it temporarily makes the issues that you'd rather not deal with disappear. They come back-- they always do. But for that moment, you can catch a breath and not think of the toxic fumes in the air.

It's funny, before my first time there, the ex-girlfriend (by the way, my new hair wax kind of smells like her-- it fucks with my head so much) told me that I'd love the city and at the same time there's always going to be something about it that bothers me. She never specified what, and could just be pulling something out of her ass, but is absolutely correct.

If nothing good happens after 2AM and nothing starts in Vegas until 2AM...

So, when are we going back?

My Manhattan State of Mind

It's strange. Seems like every populated urban center of some kind is referred to as "the city of lights" and somehow none of them ever sleep.

This past weekend I took a trip out to New York City for the first time in my life. I suppose a reason should be given for the decision to travel 2443.79 miles (I googled it-- don't be so easily impressed.) The past few weeks I've felt trapped. Not by unwanted obligations but by complacency and uncertainty. This feeling was amplified by abandonment and self-deprivation. Restless, I would have trouble breathing. Nicotine and tar were partners and excelled in performing CPR. The truth is that I just had to get out of here. I wasn't sure exactly where, but somewhere other than here. Anywhere other than here. I felt like a Holden Caulfield with less balls and sin prostitute... and I was the phony.

I wanted to go to a place to fall in love with it. Normally I would be against with such a grand premise, but one can dream.

Did I fall in love with the city?
...Sure



Realistically, I do think that it's partly because I was raised a nomad. With a disillusioned idea of home, I'm like a weed who thrives anywhere-- but only for a short time. I find a new environment exciting and I smile like a little boy rewarded with a new toy at its novelty.

But there's something about New York City...

The desire to succeed is in the air. Its inhabitants, although partly self-absorbed and highly citycentric, are motivated to make better of themselves. There's so much assertion of control in their own paths that it's almost (even to a weekender) overwhelming. There is character that runs through its streets. Flawed and incomplete, but undeniably present.

A line from "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)" popped up in my head.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

I've been made soft (erection jokes are welcomed, if not encouraged here.) Constantly I preach self growth and betterment, but at the end I've been overtaken by emotional imbalance and dependency. At this stage in my life, my own instability needs to take the back seat. I wish to work toward something that I can be proud of, something I can show for. I've always described myself as an idealist trapped in very real confines. It's time to navigate around these walls so I can breathe regardless of my identity. If not now, when?

My writing is a representation of myself at a point in time. I'm frantically typing away because I want to put this perspective in ink. More broadly: for the few moments that I take it all so seriously, I've always meant the words that I say. Even if it stands true for just a particular moment, I'm never just playing house-- not even during a one night stand.

I'll be back, New York. Hopefully I can say that you never left.