The feeling of scratched records and ripped paper from the 60’s transported me to a time where my silk bowling jacket and plaid mini skirt would fit in. Brandy from that distillery in the old fire house on Driggs tasting like everything I had been looking for my entire life. One French guy in grey skinny jeans hitting those keys on his electric piano in the back of The Candy Shop, sounding like everything calling me home. The bright neon lights of the Empire State Building never showing up as anything more than a dot from Brooklyn. Clove cigarettes burning outside of the Brooklyn Star as our boots became caked with mud from the walk home.
This was(is) me. No separation. Just pure bliss.
Scratched records and ripped paper far from the Mumford and Sons record you bought off of Amazon. The highest rated brandy on Amazon, without any of the local flavors. Ear plugs in your ears in case the French man’s music somehow steals your hearing away in the small bar off of Marcy. Frustration from not being able to capture the neon lights of the Empire State Building that tease you from across the river. Clove cigarettes inciting your allergies as you decide to spend the rest of the night outside with the bouncer.
That was(is) you. No separation. Just pure hatred.
So don’t come around here looking for something to help your poser status. Leave me at least one thing I love, unscathed by your stereotypical beliefs. Stop doing something you hate so much, to try to impress a small few. Because as we use the heels of our AllBirds to ram our clove cigarettes into the ground, your collared button down shirt and instinctive turning away from the smoke gives you away. You don’t have to be us to be loved. You can just be you.