Because the last thing I have time for is an additional 50,000 words, but even I can commit to a prompt a day.
If you could live anywhere, where would it be?
Really? We have to do this today?
I suspect the only thing preventing me imploding from a sense of poor timing is the fact that, if you’ve spent more than 20 minutes in my company ever, you would have known that any other answer was a lie.
Because it’s the place that makes me write things like this:
Nowhere else feels like this, smells like this, sounds like this: exhaust and caffeine and chatter and hot dog stands and car horns. Nowhere else is as loud and as brash and as honest. I think a lot about the personalities of the cities I visit – how most of them you could identify with your eyes closed just by the way they make you feel. New York gets under your skin, and I can’t tell if it’s the people who make it or it makes the people.
Yeah, sure it’s ridiculously hot in the summer and I’ll do unclassy things like flash my knickers like Marilyn Monroe walking over a subway grate; and I know it’s not as simple as I spend every day here and I’ll never be miserable and I’ll always be inspired; but I don’t need to look any further to find that place Jesse Malin sings about where you’re safe to be more yourself than anywhere. I’ve found it.
My lovely friend Josh, who took some time out to play tour guide around the time of my last visit, is still without power in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy but has spent this week volunteering for the American Red Cross. They are currently seeking donations of blood and money to help those affected.