My diamond shoes are too tight
I had dinner in Williamsburg the other night. Everywhere I walked, there were English accents. It became surprisingly unpleasant very quickly. I could be in Hackney, I thought. And I immediately felt less special, and somehow dirty. Dinner with my friend was a perfect thing, though, so I soon got over myself.
***
I stopped saying "first world problems" (in jest or not) a few years back, cos I thought (and still think) it's a fucked up thing to say in many ways. More eloquent people have perfectly described their feelings of ickiness with the phrase so I won't, not here. I was thinking of the simplistic meaning behind it, though, because I have moved continents (via legal channels, by choice, and not fleeing persecution) and finding a place to live is proving to be very difficult. I speak the language, and am gainfully employed, and yet the maze of bureaucracy is so needlessly complex that I find myself a little in awe of the Big Machine. Bravo to you, creator of this fuckery. I hope they sing your name in the ballads of the pits of hell.
I am having real trouble convincing landlords/management companies that I will pay my rent (on time! every month!) despite not having a US credit history, nor a NY-based guarantor. I have a full time job, I say. Here's my employer's letter telling you that. Here is a bank statement of a bank account I just opened here, showing you I have transferred some money to the US, I bring up, pleasantly. Can't you see, based on the visa I have just shown you in my British passport, that it is in my interests to have a home here, and not jeopardise thatin any way? Can't you see?
They cannot see.
I have no home yet.
But I am OK. I am healthy. I have a job (that I enjoy). I laugh every day. I buy too-expensive lunches instead of packing a lunchbox. I see my friends and drink and laugh with them. I have the internet, for fuck's sake. The other day, this handsome dude in the supermarket smiled at me in a way that made me feel like Lupita Nyong'o. I'm fine. In the hyperbolic language of my generation, I guess my diamond shoes are a little too tight, and my buttery calfskin wallet is too small for this wad of cash.
***
I heard a man talking to his friend as I walked towards the Flatiron Building. He said, "Yeah, the night of the super bowl – he was swiping right for an hour." And I immediately felt very single, and very tired. A few days later I read this piece about Tinder and rural communities in America and then I got over myself.