i am leaving new york with one pair of blue-laced boots. i am bound for vermont on a bus which will deliver me into my mother’s blue subaru. once arrived at my teenage home, i have made a vow with ryan to lay my head upon my pillow. ryan, a friend in ridgewood with a red beard, will be in turkey for the remainder of april. upon questioning, he admitted to feeling sleepy.

“whats this hip artist doing going home to live with her parents’ car?” he asked me at a going away party in a warm wood-floors apartment.

my defense as follows:

I was never a hip artist, i’m a printmaker. those friends who have abandoned my instagram know i kept my chin tilted far too high to be considered one of the scummy semblancances who haunt the brooklyn blocks in $200 blundstones. i was and remain a technical bitch who has no problem ignoring many attempts to be included in my excruciatingly constricted definition of art and artist. unfortunately, i seem to have fallen into my own trap. the current lack of confidence, skill, and energy to wipe glass tables has me wondering why i got so skinny in the first place.

To your question regarding the use of my parents’ car, I will answer that I did my best to avoid it. to be real/honest, working 4 days a week as an artist and 3 days as a waitress gave me a stomach ulcer. (test results pending). this city is stressful, and what makes living here hysterical is the relish of stress which is so characteristic of new yorkers. granted, i am speaking of a certain demographic willing to throw themselves under the concrete in a repeating stop-start rhythm.

I took a risk coming to new york on the whim of an internship at the Lower East Side Printshop. i cashed out $50 on a rideshare with a backpack and an interview, stayed with a friend who didn’t really want me sharing her room, and lost a few very expensive items due to my naiveté. and then i made good prints.

things could have gone other ways. perhaps i should have followed suit of the fellow intern who promptly recognized the [RED] at [PRINTSHOP], quit and started making $12.50 an hour using toxic chemicals to make commercial art for hotels while paying a modest rent for a small room with a window in ridgewood. my craigslist insisted on a $700 closet in bedstuy and double shifts in two local restaurants. plus i rap, tag.

you’re it, gentrifier.

all buses aside, i will make a proper case for the difference between myself and most of the young white twenties shitting face down the block.  i come from a rural vermont town where we wave at the neighbor, and i have maintained this habit throughout my travels. i’ve sparked my fare share of tofu bowls on stoops and for the younger crowd, i’ll beat ya mans at ball on the corner of Tompkins and Halsey regardless.

To further confuse the capitalist calling the gentrifier black, let me be clear, I have NO sneakers, but I have one pair of guarenteed-for-life LLBean boots, i apologize.

April fools, I’m going home to make paper.

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