Today, I awoke to an alert on my phone identifying the suspect in the NYC bombing that occurred on Saturday night, injuring 29. On my morning commute riding the subway, I couldn't concentrate on my book, because I was thinking about the stabbings at a mall in Minnesota that occurred on Saturday night as well, injuring 9. I worried about taking public transit in one of the busiest cities in the world and was anxious when a police car zoomed past me. On my walk to my office, I actively avoided corners with trashcans and mailboxes and took a longer route to avoid the crowds.

In the week following the 15th year anniversary of 9/11, in the months following Orlando, and the year that included Paris, Nice, Istanbul, and hundreds of horrific events in the Middle East, it is hard to step back and appreciate what we have in this world. A morning where, because of hate, I was consumed with thoughts of anxiety and worry, it is hard to realize the amount of love and kindness that does exist in this world. It is hard to put into perspective the opportunities I have been given by being born into the body I was, in the family I was, and in the location I was.

In a world filled with hate, there is also a world filled with love - as long as we choose to see it. Well wishes to those living daily fears in places far more dangerous than my own. Today, hold your loved ones tightly, live with kindness, and share love.

Meticulous debates surround a summer bonfire to discuss proper marshmallow etiquette.
Doughy white cubes burst into flames then are quickly blackened and extinguished through giggling breath.
The sous-chef practices a different approach; strategically avoid the flames’ direct lick and slowly rotate into a golden-brown treat.
Loyalists to the fire-craft sacrifice proximity to the inferno to perfect gooey ecstasy.
 
Stray embers pirouette towards the sky, mimicking the fireflies’ pulsing greeting to the cicadas in the trees, and the crickets in the grass, and the frogs in the pond.
With baited breath, a dirty glass jar waits to fulfill its destiny of reincarnation from “Knott’s Farm Strawberry Preservative” to illuminated insect death-chamber.
Swirling dresses and swirling clouds of smoke pair with toes tickled by soft blades of grass.
 
A boy capitalizes on an excruciatingly long hour, in increments of a centimeter per minute, to nonchalantly inch towards his crush.
She fidgets with the loose thread protruding from the course tribal blanket they are both sitting on.
Her once-white Keds, now rimmed in a nature green stain, speak to days of bike rides with no handlebars, popsicle overdoses, and first kisses in neighborhood tree-houses.
 
The fire wanes soft as nature’s circadian rhythm slips into pace for the night.
The blanket is folded and hands with sticky fingers throw sticks with sticky ends back into the forest to lay where they were picked.

A dirty glass jar takes on its new purpose.
And the Keds get dirtier.

The current largest love affair of my life remains, strongly and vehemently, the love affair I share with New York City. As it remains – an accumulation of many nights - this is where I stand.

A self-romanticized stroll, accompanied by musical commentary as melancholy as your mood,

You catch the gaze of a stranger wearing dirtied Chuck Taylor’s and note that this is the last time your eyes will meet.   

Soberly thoughtful, you sit on a rusting park bench, watching tourists’ cameras hang out of taxicabs.

Inquiring pigeons select the bread-holding-homeless man over the finance mogul with oxfords as slick as his hair.

Clasped hands swing back and forth as a couple with cuffed jeans wade their bare feet in the cold fountain water.

They talk about that time they went to that concert and did that drug and that thing in that bathroom.

A group of too many dogs, tethered to a woman with too many bags, prance by, scaring the pigeon detectives.

One dog bends down to lick a dark mark on the cement – a shadow of a young girl’s expelled chewing-gum.

Catty corner boasts a café that serves smashed avocado to girls with large social media followings.

They sit with oversized hats, in metal chairs, discussing fashion and locations exclusively below 14th street, Manhattan.

A waiter with ear gauges, who performs drag on Sunday nights, clears a table filled with half-empty mimosas.

You contemplate the group, and the group beside them, and the group on the fire escape above.

They all coexist in your world, but you all coexisting in New York’s.

Simultaneously stealing your energy and gifting you energy, the city doesn’t stop to allow pause. 

You are allotted the blessings of ever-twirling opinions, youthful fervor, and charismatic hopefulness.

Your tax remains a lonesome, wandering range of days and people who are constantly searching for what they are to themselves.

The buzz, the pulse, the vibration - leaves you with something. 

You’re not quite sure, but maybe you’ll figure it out on your next stroll.

Dating in New York City is a complicatedly hungry monster. While I could begrudgingly package my life into a Sex-and-the-City doppleganging experience, it would not be an accurate reflection of my current situation. I don't eat quinoa, I never get my 8 hours, I drink more liquor than water, and the average life expectancy for my tights is two days. In reality, I don't feel like the spunky 'vivacious 20-something' that I literally am. The denial is real, and so it the impending doom that is my childhood/current diet finally bitch-slapping my body. 

This city is dripping with unabashedly confident, successful women with impeccable fashion sense and the affinity for winning the gene lottery. While this utopian society is heaven for the woman-drooling population, the luck doesn't tend to tip evenly the other way. The ratio of men to women in New York City is 3-to-1, much like the ratio of times I fall in love with a stranger per subway ride. 

Being a self-proclaimed metrosexual inamorata provides me with an abundance of embarassingly awkward sexually-ambiguous situations. The Game is to figure out if the perfectly coiffed hair and the strategically slightly-over-tailored trousers are meant to attract the male or female population. Is it too much to ask to not-so-seriously date a satorically aware male who maintains peak scruffage, rounds out at a strong 6-foot-4 inches, and doesn't wear running shoes with toes?

The question is, if this city is The City of Singles, then how does one maximize profits? Does one acquire straight-across bangs slightly too short for their face and move to Williamsburg to date The Man-Bun-Flannel they saw on the L train this morning? Does one invest in a Juice Press rewards program and suffer through the occasional hot yoga overheating to satisfy The Equinox-Gluten-Free-Yuppie whom you stalk on his shamelessly self-promoting Instaram account? 

Can tastes transcend stereotypes? If, as New York City residents, we all unwillingly drink the Kool-Aid, vowing to remain forcibly single until we are "reaching our success peak and at least 28, but, god forbid, no older than 30", then why don't we embrace our anti-nuptual lives and explore the plethora of unique dating options we have in the city?