Philadelphia- A love letter

Dear Philadelphia

When I wake up, roll over and see you every morning, I think, “Wow. I really love you.” A lot of people don't get it, especially those who know I'm coming from New York. You're an example of the old saying, you can't choose who you love. I know you're not good for me; folks from New York have told me I've changed. I'm harder, colder, meaner, an instigator. Not jaded but... you've killed that twinkle in my eye. It's been replaced by a smoldering flame that burns only for you.

This love is something that can't be explained. Can't be measured or quantified. What is it that makes so I keep coming back to your “philth”? Is it your lack of city planning? The people who wear plaid in a non ironic way? The overabundance of pitbulls? The numerous stray cats? The way you've held on to your poor white people? (New York no longer has any of those). The way shit shuts down on Sunday and then discovering those places that ARE open and feeling like you've stumbled upon a fairy circle? The number of true motorcycles that rove the streets (not those ridiculous Honda/Kawasaki/ninja racing bikes)? Maybe it has something to do with your unhealthy, inhuman, beyond reason obsession with Benjamin Franklin. I'm guessing it's a little (or a lot) of all of these things, but I can only guess. It still remains a mystery.

You push my buttons, Philly. If New York had a catch phrase it would be, “Go fuck yourself.” If you had a catch phrase it would be, “What're you gunna do about it?” That's a direct challenge. A confrontational approach to what could have otherwise been a simple exchange. That gets me going. I want a challenge. I want a fight. It's like that song by Metric, “Combat Baby”: none of them fight me like you do, Philly.

I've thought about leaving. Lots of times. I have a job offer from google at the moment that would take me to Michigan. There are some charter schools in Harlem that would hire me in a second. I can't bring myself to go, though. I'm too addicted to you. Besides, all my shit it here.

Yours, until I get my shit together,
You know who.

Husband Material

I got the inspiration for this post from my friend's new blog, Husband Material. You should check it out.
Pictured above is my future husband, Atif. To protect his identity, I won't say which of those ruggedly attractive men is him. He had me at, “Snakes have TWO penises.” I think I won him over with my delectable Easter pasties, but he'd probably tell you it was my stunning beauty. It really doesn't matter.
We realized our future together when we met while both studying last spring abroad at the University of Bristol in England. That considered, our meeting was pretty miraculous; we could have gone about our entire life in the United States and never have known the other existed! What fortunate stars we have. I can't wait until we get to spend our golden years swapping strange animal facts, eating halal pizza and me teaching him to play the flute.
The best part of this whole marriage business? Islam. That's right, polygamy. That means that while Atif is off running some multinational corporation in China, I get two other co-wives to party it up with, help me raise the llamas on the farm, have awesome movie marathons and other such important things. We've discussed it and think that with low price of land in the areas surrounding San Fransisco, we'll probably settle down there, at least until California sinks into the Pacific. I'll update you when I and my co-wives start accepting applications for a fourth wife. You know, the one who'll actually have his kids and stuff.