I love living in New York City, and I’m a New Yorker through and through. Want an authentic New York bagel or slice of pizza? I know where to find Bagel Street (a stretch of about 10 blocks lined with different gourmet bagel shops), and I can tell you where to get the most amazing slices (just name the borough). Want to score a prostitute, drugs, or a first-hand account of the secrets of the subway system? I’m your lady; I just need to make a couple of calls or tell you to duck before the conductor sees us hiding between the seats. Want to experience New York nightlife? I’m not talking about the glitzy glam that wanna-bes crave; I’m talking about the nitty-gritty world where thin-skinned mind-fuck-novices need not apply. Just make sure that you’re ready to handle what I can show you.
I’m seasoned. Hardened. Tough. I don’t turn away when people stare me down, and I don’t care what the law says. I’ll cut you for threatening my way of life.
So imagine my surprise when I found myself texting, “Sorry, I can’t go out. I’m homebound today. I’m amazingly uncoordinated and afraid to bust my ass in the snow.”
I used to sell ecstacy in the train station, several feet away from cops. And now I’m afraid of leaving the house, for fear that I’ll fall on a patch of ice and hurt my baby.
I’ve become a prissy pregnant princess.