Life as a disaffected child of privilege

Yesterday was such an odd day. For a large part of the day I failed to accomplish anything meaningful, whatever that means. In the afternoon I met up with my good friend Zizzle at the 59th St Rec Center to do some rock climbing. That neighborhood is a wasteland. Nothing about it engenders any kind of happiness or optimism at all. It's nothing but bleak gray old run down buildings and destitute car lots. The Rec Center itself is a claustrophobic ancient relic of a gymish nature. After climbing several narrow staircases that looked like they belonged in a (New York City) public school, we arrived at this medium-sized room with skylight two stories up. The floridly painted walls were covered in little handholds and long ropes dangled from the ceiling to the floor. The space itself reminded me of a small church, with its high walls and light streaming in and casting stretched shadows throughout the space. Despite the large number of hipsters getting their climb on, and the harness cutting into my nuts, I enjoyed the experience very much.

In the evening I traveled with my good friend Bobbito to the Financial District for a loft party where everyone was a semester out of college. I failed to close any of the large number of gorgeous Indian girls there. They all remained standing with bad posture, one arm folded clutching their clutches under other arm, which clutched a cigarette and red solo cup. While listening to a short plain Allison, I spaced out and took in the towering buildings. While I enjoy the wider streets of the FinDis, I realized that there is just something so unnatural about the built environment in the neighborhood. Whether through existential crisis or excessive drug use, I started feeling a giant pile of angst crumpling inside my chest like a solo cup. The walls and floors began to undulate and ripple like granite lakes.

God help me.