The apple vs. avocados

Avocados aren’t even from California. They don’t even go here.

And yet, that’s the shit I miss the most from my sunshine state. (And my dog, obviously.)

I know living in America means having every literal fruit and vegetable available to purchase and for my consumption, but ordering tacos with guac ain’t the same here in New York City. It’s like I gave up avocados as part of some permanent Lent I unknowingly signed up for.

I will say, though, there are many other qualities of New York that I only dreamed about in San Francisco. Like: Dollar slice pizza, not getting kicked out of clubs at 2 am, and experiencing actual summer. (Yes, the first thing I did here was walk my sweaty self to BB&B and buy an AC — who says you can’t buy happiness?)

I like big cities. Correction: I love them. Having the chance to live in Buenos Aires after growing up in the Bay Area is what likely spurred me to consider moving to New York. I didn’t actually make a plan to do it until I realized and experienced a couple things, all of which included your cliche shitty life moments: having someone tell you they don’t want to see you anymore, hating your job, and consequently getting rear-ended while on your way home from therapy after discussing said rejection and job loathing. I was in a rut, car-less, and needed a change. So I bought a white board, and made a plan.

About a month before I flew out, my mom said to me in passing, “You know, your problems are going to follow you where ever you go.” If you’ve ever watched any “Austin Powers” movies, then you definitely remember those sexy robot babes who shoot bullets out of their tits, but whose heads explode on the account of being unable to handle Austin’s hip gyrations. That’s probably the most accurate account of how my brain felt when she said that. Why? Because I knew that. I wasn’t running away from my problems, or romanticizing New York. Contrary to my poor memory and space cadet tendencies, I knew exactly what I was doing in buying that one-way plane ticket.

I moved for a plethora of reasons, some of which I’m even figuring out along the way. But one of them was to tackle my issues head-on, something I just couldn’t do in my hometown. I knew damn well my problems would never “go away,” and dealing with them didn’t mean fixing or ridding myself of them. Apart from my unhealthy obsession with kombucha and running into Broad City bitches a second time, most of my “issues” are what make me, me. So it’s not a matter of banishing my flaws, but accepting them. It’s the least I could do for myself here. And yeah, maybe I don’t have local avocados to smother my salads or face in. And maybe I have accidentally ended up deep in Queens because I was too busy queuing my Spotify. And yes, maybe I got suckered into trying over priced hand scrub in a fancy gold foundation. But it’s part of my process, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Also, if you’re steal reading this shit, here’s my latest on VICE.

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