Life seems to always be at the halfway point, either halfway to something stupendous or achingly horrendous. One of my feet stands on solid ground; concrete, while the other dangles over a treacherous abyss. I view life through a foggy screen, as if every day the Truman show, and I, Truman. My distorted reality came to be when I moved to the city last year.
Now living in Spanish Harlem and actively participating in its gentrification and demise, I walk to “NYC COFFEE” on 96th and 2nd to sip a $9 espresso. I go to school, mute each day unless I want to discuss some controversy surrounding Kanye West, and then I go home and sit on the phone for 3-5 hours, and then I fall asleep (after copious sleep remedies) to Seinfeld. Sometimes I go to work where I re-prep clothing park avenue princesses throw to the ground of dressing rooms for 8-10 hours at a time. In a single day, I get paid the price of one pair of pants.
I am now in the process of finding meaning in my routine. How my thoughts when I hang clothes, clipping and edging each fabric, may be of value to those other than me.
Why do we fall so hard for consumerism? Stronger than a first love, we buy to salvage heartbreak, self-consciousness, and depression. I include myself in this, for I believe a Vivienne Westwood belt will solve all of my problems.
With the crack of my Manolo Blahnik kitten heel, there was also a crack in my consumerist reality.
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