I'm not a New York native.
I'm a New Yorker.







I grew up in Maine.
I've lived in a few places on the West Coast and a few places on the East Coast.

I've driven cross-country six times.

I spend the holidays with my family in my hometown, and I disguise myself before going to the grocery store in an effort to avoid potential conversations with anyone I know from my past. I'm not ashamed of who I am or where I've been, but I don't care much for providing an explanation - a history.

I favor elbow room. My mind space requires a three-foot radius. Close quarters make me nauseous, but I feel completely comfortable riding in a subway car an hour a day each way.

Somehow, in a town of eight million people, New York makes me feel optimal. Lost in a sea of faces, I don't have to explain anything. I'm surrounded by strangers I feel friendly with.

A New Yorker is observant, not nosy.
A New Yorker is a friend when you need one disguised as a stranger.
A New Yorker is forthright to a fault, not rude.
A New Yorker requires room to move among the dreamers.

A New Yorker needs no explanation because New York is what you make of it.

I'm home.

photo by: LL