All I Do is Nguyen

God I’m so boring these days I feel unworthy of authoring this blog. I have no complaints! Still broke, though, despite promotion at work (dem credit cards, doe). I got a dog who, despite his advanced heartworm, is the most perfect being ever to traverse this earth. I got a promotion—the honest way—and I work hard to do well at my job (ew, right? being self-enabled?). I’m in a pretty healthy relationship with a non-sociopath/serial killer/sex offender. I’m finally starting to furnish my home (after 17 months of residency). You can say I live a pretty honest, wonderful existence in New York: I go out and engage with the city’s culture (I crossed paths with Zach Braff yesterday on Bleecker Street, which is the millennial equivalent to being in the orchestra of La Traviata at Lincoln Center); I’m active (I take the stairs at work); I’m well read (about to dip into Aziz Ansari’s Modern Romance, quickly followed by my coworker’s book on Oliver Cromwell’s detached head); I own succulents; and I buy specialty dog food for my perfect little man… by all standards, I’ve made it in this jungle. Dare I say I am Queen Bee of said jungle (in my own mind). Also, I don’t know how I lost weight, but I did, and I feel less lardly. Winning. I have a perfectly minted base-layer of a tan from when I singed my dermis off in Haiti while on a Caribbean cruise in May. I bought my summer’s choice-pair sandals last weekend for a fraction of the original price. Crushin’ it.

But now I have nothing to complain about, so I’m conflicted. Should I make something up? There’s always that hollow void of not being famous and/or making money off my creative talents – doesn’t every gentrifier in Brooklyn feel the same entitled unfulfilment? I feel like I have all the things that should warrant that success: my roommate grows tomatoes and flowers on our BedStuy roof, so I am by default an eco-conscious urbanite. My dog is a rescue = karma points (and he’s a mutt). And though I may not always publish, I write almost every day (grocery lists, emails, snide Facebook statuses…). PLUS I have a borderline unhealthy addiction to bougie coffee, wine, and gelato. Like, how am I not a famous writer already, adored by my peers in their renovated Bushwick lofts? I can hold conversations on politics, history, art, music, and defend a half-assed opinion on any given topic within those buckets. My lack of fashion sense is actually an asset, as style minimalism seems to be so en vogue here. Why am I not a Blues performer’s arm candy? Why can’t I make money off poems that compare my womb to a cinema popcorn machine? How has my pitch for a sad broke bitch in the big city not been picked up by Oxygen yet? Like, where my champagne grapes at?!

That’s basically all I got. Life is pretty good. My coworkers think I’m funny, so I’ve basically won at Monopoly.



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