Open Letter

Dear New York,

It's been thirty months since we first met, and yet we still have no plans for a future together. You denied my request for marriage. You sarcastically said, "I'll marry you when a blind governor grants civil unions!" And now I know you were being more than sarcastic. There was some truth to your abusive comments.

That's right, I said the word: abuse. You pummel me with snow and then tickle me with sunshine. Is this any way to fight? Is this any way to love? Your friends drive by me in cars and honk suggestively. And when I don't smile, they want to kill me. I get your message, New York. Either smile, or I'll run you over.

I'm not taking it anymore.

Not that we didn't have some really amazing times. This is what makes it so hard to leave you. Remember the laughs, New York? Remember the rooftop barbecues, chicken house impromptu dance parties, delicious Dominican rotisserie chicken, and make-out parties in the Den of Cin?

But, in another respect, I remember countless breakfasts, lunches and after dinner walks where I discussed my relationship frustrations with friends who ... now this is the real hurt ... could relate because you were dating them on the side! From them, I heard the really juicy shit about you, New York. I mean, you actually allowed your friends with cars to HIT AND ALMOST KILL my best friend's girlfriend. What the fuck, New York?! Not to mention the bedbugs, roach bugs, and worms that appeared out of my ass! The countless failed job interviews. The fights on trains - oh yeah - there were several of these. The robberies at gun point. The hookers and the dealers.

Never again do I wish to be asked, "What do you do for a living?" You made me sick of artists. Therefore, you made me sick of myself. This is the sort of opportunistic bullshit you produce, New York. I'm sick of it.

You made my life feel like a damn episode of NYPD CSI Blue and Order. So this is my goodbye. You can find your shit out on the curb where it came from, and where it belongs. I'm leaving you for someone who likes camping, yoga and organic food.

Take fucking care,

Sarah Legg

P.S. You owe me $150 for all of the expired food I've bought from bodegas, including the donut with the dead cockroach attached.