I love New York summers because there are always days like the ones this past weekend where it’s awesomely sunny but not terribly humid or unbearable. Me and the boyfriend had burgers at Dumont in Williamsburg on Friday night, bratwurst at Wechslers in the East Village on Saturday night, and carnitas tacos at Mayahuel on Sunday—that’s the beauty of this city. We sunbathed in Central Park on Saturday, lunched at Via Quadronno on the Upper East Side, and watched the sun set on the High Line Sunday evening. ...And, around 11p.m. on Friday, I illicitly met up with an ex on the Upper West Side.
I realize these things are not congruous (and I really am a good person!), and I often wonder if my grandmother died so that I’d have the "right" to be a duplicitous, dishonorable and accidental practitioner of polyamory (it runs in the family, right?). It doesn’t make any sense and I admit to being terribly confused (and simultaneously thankful to have the luxury to feel that way), but every day feels like getting away with murder. Oh wait, that already happened.
I realize these things are not congruous (and I really am a good person!), and I often wonder if my grandmother died so that I’d have the "right" to be a duplicitous, dishonorable and accidental practitioner of polyamory (it runs in the family, right?). It doesn’t make any sense and I admit to being terribly confused (and simultaneously thankful to have the luxury to feel that way), but every day feels like getting away with murder. Oh wait, that already happened.
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