east harlem is an oasis of purity.
[um, what?!]
just as long as you understand that it’s not greenwich village.
[well. um. duh.]
and so long as you don’t wander past the jefferson projects at night.
[huh? that’s 2 blocks away! and for 5 months out of the year, “night” begins at like four o’clock!!]
and don’t wear any jewelry.
[hang on. i’m a girl. come again??]
just keep your wits about you.
[okay, done. check. i’ve lived in these parts for long enough to know even that.]
i will say this about it, though . . .
it’s about as authentic as they come.
[and i like love that.]
and not riddled with the yuppie imports of select neighborhoods which will remain unmentioned.
[who has time for that anyway? oh wait. i’m an import. scratch the import bit.]
it’s as raw as the infection once was that sent me to the emergency room.
[which was well over a month ago. meh. moving on.]
he tells me there’s a cuban joint on the next block with great food.
[i can do cuban food.]
the fire department is within spitting distance.
[ya know. in case i want to set something on fire.]
and the bar next door is hailed as the dive of all dives. and only plays country music.
[okay, this will work. i can tap into my southern roots while getting knee-knocking drunk on the cheap at the same time. two birds. one stone.]
i can promise you absolutely nothing except this . . .
i will rock it.
[one way or another. and possibly multiple ways. yes. multiple ways.]
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