Palm Tree Wonderland
I’ve imagined people watching me as I sleep. Last night, I half-awoke three times to find two Mexican cowboy farmers standing over me, then some guy in a baseball cap, and a shadow figure in the closet. These disturbances may have something to do with the fact that I’ve been falling asleep to episodes of Breaking Bad—pleeease don’t say anything, I haven’t caught up yet—but, I’m guessing there’s more to it.
I’m pretty sure the house where I’m staying is not haunted, though my room is especially dark and quiet. This is what happens when you take a chick from Brooklyn and put her smack in the tranquil fairytale of Pinecrest.
So much has happened in the past weeks. I closed The Precious Rejects Show in New York, moved out of my studio, flew to Miami for a long vacation, turned 30, celebrated Thanksgiving with friends and family, went on a camping trip to The Keys, and as is common with my damaged little brain, I’ve questioned every decision I’ve ever made, and of course my reason for LIVING.
Miami is lovely. Too lovely. There are no 3 am garbage-truck-alarms roaring on the streets. No uncomfortable drafts creeping through my room. No icy raindrops tapping on the sill. I can’t suppress the fantasy of moving into a spacious house in my ol’ hometown with a pool that sparkles like a Swiss Blue Topaz.
Don’t get me wrong, New York, I love you, but you can be a real dick. As much as I enjoy running back into your arms, your beatings are getting rougher and more frequent. You are sexy, interesting, and you keep me on my toes, but the grass is literally greener on this side.
What’s a girl to do?