Dear big city,
You're not as big as I used to think you to be. Your girth has shrunk and I'm a bit less lost among your many subway branches. I haven't fallen up many subway stairs lately or face-planted on the cobble stones, but I'm sure you're to remedy that soonly. Big city, I've decided to grow up a bit and use capital letters when grammatically required to do so. I suppose my adolescent phase of rebellion has started to fade away. Then again, maybe not. On Thursday I'm warning you that I'm going to attempt to wear high heels. The last time I tried to do this at a fancy menswear boutique halloween party, your cobblestone streets laughed as I tripped three times in succession and an old woman tried to help me up as I embarrassingly kept puttering along. Please don't do that this time. Please oh please. I must try to wear heels at least once in this city and mildly succeed. And I can't promise to pack a pair of spare flats this time.
Big city, you have yet to send Mr.Darcy to me on the subway. Is there a reason for this? Probably so. Just to let you know I have recently stopped looking to fall in love with disheveled men on the subway. It's probably because the lumberjacks have come out of hibernation all baby faced and groomed. Also, I've had my nose buried in Jane Eyre for the past few weeks on the 2 train and I am NOT looking for any Mr.Rochesters thankyouverymuch.
Also (at this point I feel like Big City should be synonymous with 'Santa') can you please in your magical small world/cities collide/sidewalk conversation-type way get me a job or at least an internship with Kickstarter or some fabulous production company where I can be around creative people who love what they're doing and like to play jokes on each other and be productive and have holiday parties? That would be lovely.
Also, the subway prophets are starting to weird me out. Are we at quota yet for this summer? Get back to me on that one...I had a guy shouting Hallelujah at me while I filed my nails (BIG MISTAKE).
Big bear hugs,
Jessika
