NY, NY

I've discovered that what I miss most about New York is the Film Forum. Every interesting movie that I read about is currently playing there. There, and no where else. Ever.
Of course, there are other things that I miss about New York, something about the whole scope of it, the whole tiny universe that you can get to and from and in and out of on a dirty train full of dirty, clean, insane and friendly people. Its the whole magnanimous, rough, guilty nature of the place. The random fabric that makes up the entire world seems to live there. People from everywhere live together in relative harmony. (That harmony may be disgruntled and frustrated, but hey, people, we're doing it.)
I miss riding my bike over the Brooklyn Bridge. I miss all the insane products- things I would never buy, I guess that makes me a consumer at heart, doesn't it- live frogs, bubble tea, disgusting smells downtown, designer shit and hot dogs uptown (those shoes are three hundred fucking dollars- lets get 'em), knockoff dvds in the underground of the city. I miss that big field in Prospect Park. I miss that restaurant on the east side - even though I never found it again, the thought these things were there, always, made me feel like I lived in some place thorough, lustful, avid, warm . The thought of all those movies playing at the Forum was a comfort, a speck in the distance outside of myself, and I didn't have to go see them to anchor to them. The nights when I did go out with a friend to the Forum for a double feature until 1:00am and then go to that tiny Latin restaurant (open 24 hours a day- or maybe it was just the night) in the nexus of Lafayette and Broadway and read the sex column in The Voice aloud made the nights that I didn't glow a little bit more. I loved the thought of the things I could do. I loved the thought of the candle-lit Sunday night yoga class at YTTP. I loved that subway stop in Queens next to the pizza place with the weird tea sold in cans. I loved the deep, foreign heart of Brooklyn that made feel so alien, like I had taken a cab into another country; a wacked out country where restaurants advertised which rabbi blessed their precious victuals.
These little universes all made me feel like I was a part of something, not so much big, but more made up of reality, whatever it was: it didn't matter, nobody was pulling the wool over my eyes there. I could get to Coney Island in thirty minutes, for no reason, and no one would try to stop me. In fact, they didn't give a shit.
Despite my neighbours' obvious indifference, their joined existence, the city itself, was my best friend. Its absence is my enemy, a very deep pain that I don't think I have ever felt for a person.
Lately I have been entertaining the notion that this is my biggest fault, perhaps even the source of my depression: I don't take enough pleasure in human interaction. I don't know; maybe I always thought it was weak, or maybe nobody done loved me right and all that jazz. Regardless: here I am, sitting in the middle of sanguine life, full of lovely people and untouched by violence or hunger, and I am pining for a city. Weird. Anyway, I'm trying so hard to enjoy my life- to be close to my family, to enjoy the people around me. I don't know why this is such a struggle for me, but I've got my sister wrapped around my finger, my mom runs hot and cold, and everything is beauteous on the boyfriend front. Friends are another story. I've got acquaintances at the restaurant, people who I certainly enjoy, I have a great time when I'm working, honestly, but it just takes me so damn long to open up to people. Help me.

The bf and I found a vietnamese restaurant here in town. My moments of true happiness are here: in eating someone else's comfort food. I shit you not.

my shoulder is hurting today. yesterday was a day of mania:
my mother was manic because her mother was coming into town. my brother was (extremely) manic because he got into another gargantuan fight with his (extremely) unstable girlfriend. The boyfriend was just tired as hell and I think he's pretty bored with the monotony of moving somewhere new and being immobile. I read an advice column for most of this morning: http://dir.salon.com/topics/since_you_asked/
and have decided that I would make up a fictional entry for myself:
Dear Cary-
I'm a college student with a pretty good life going for me; I'm not really worried about my future career, I've recovered from a pretty deep depression in the last year, and I have a great boyfriend who I love. There only seems to be one missing piece in the puzzle: my dad bailed a couple of years ago (in a catastrophic drug-ridden fiasco)and left my mom in the lurch with my then tween sister. I have taken up a big role in parenting since then.
It fucking sucks. I get so stressed about the whole situation so much. I mean, my mom certainly isn't perfect, and neither am I, and the very logistics of raising a child between two imperfect people, one of whom is not even a parent, is really getting to me. I moved in with my mom, after a good 5 years of not living with her, to help out. Its really stressful, and in a lot of ways I'm the one who makes and enforces all the rules for my sister (mom's a recovering alcoholic and a diabetic). I'm moving out in a couple of days and I'm really worried about it. One the one hand me having my own place will be good for me, and for my sister to have somewhere to go if she and my mom get pissed at eachother that isn't her friends' house, and on the other if I move out my sister will inevitably spend every night (and possibly move in) at her friends house (recovering alcoholic mom, independently wealthy, batshit crazy codependent).
I realize that I have to move out, for my own sanity, although the past year living with them has taught me how to stay out of their fights and put myself first. I guess what I'm asking for is not advice, but a soothing voice in my ear, giving me the breakdown of my next emotional move.

Sincerely,

Family Frustrated