It’s beginning to look a lot like a metropolitan Christmas. Seriously, everywhere you go.
Now that the Ebola scare has settled down since the infected doctor in a New York hospital was released into the world recently, I too thought my dread of falling ill could finally pass. As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog, I’ve been fighting off an incessant cold practically since I landed here. However, as I’ve learned over the past week, sometimes it’s best to accept one’s sickening fate.
Hi, my name is Taylor, and I’m a closeted introvert; that is, I’m an introvert pretending to be an extrovert.
For the last couple months, I’ve felt my Texas roots growing weaker as I’ve tried to build my nest in the Big Apple. Of course, I’m incredibly proud of where I come from, but apparently there’s just some things about me that don’t allow this Bible Belt girl to sink into the New York crowd.
I’m going to be honest: I’ve never developed a huge tolerance for people of different cultures. Not because I was incapable or unwilling; I’ve simply never been around more than a few of them at a time.
In a world where there’s a Starbucks on basically every corner, one caffeine junkie will make it her mission to find New York’s celebrated coffee joints, proving nobody has to settle for $5 sweetened burnt espresso.
As of this week, it has come to my attention that I have a certified “pouty resting face.”
Call it what you will, but as of late, I’ve fallen victim to a journalist’s worst nightmare: writer’s block.
First rule when visiting New York City: stand right, walk left. Otherwise, get out of my way.
Next time someone tells you to “get lost,” take it as a compliment.