How Moving From New York to L.A. Made Me a Loser

I left New York twice. The first time I was younger and filled with ambition. The second time I was older and even more ambitious.

That tends to be the case when you have a lot more to lose.

Like most, New York evolved into my abusive lover who I couldn’t get away from because I was certain we belonged together. Despite concrete proof to the contrary.

I couldn’t bring myself to admit the unfathomable. I didn’t want to face the paralyzingly truth that I just may have wasted the best years of my life chasing a ghost.

But to be honest — we are all chasing ghosts. Plowing, fumbling, running towards something that we are convinced will receive us with open arms and make it all better.

The moment I mentally promised myself that I would make New York City my partner for life was when I sold myself to the devil in a party dress. It we such an irresistible proposition and one that I didn’t take lightly.

Of course I would reunite with the city of my dreams at the perfect age of 24 and then who knows? The sky’s the limit.

Seven years later I endured a very necessary and bitter break up. I had been tormented relentlessly and brutally assigned the awful truth. I wasn’t good enough for New York.

So, maybe I would be good enough for LA. I was still young and viable enough to be of use. The sky could still be the limit.

If New York couldn’t stand me — LA was a different story.

The City of Angels heralded my arrival with trumpets and confetti. The love was desperately needed but also off putting. And then I began to experience the symptoms of withdrawal. This foreign city with its swaying Palm trees and vivid blue skies was just too good to be real.

Everything was falling into place and systematically the idea that I may never achieve those dreams began to dissipate.

I fucking hated it. I didn’t want the warm embrace of a town that I had escaped to. I wanted my unrequited love to beg for my return and pledge to treat me better.

Until then nothing mattered. Not even the reassurance of my more gorgeous replacement.

So l went back to the one I couldn’t live without. It was a bittersweet reunion. The only good times lasted for a short time and then it was back to the old tug of war.

This time it was me. I had changed. I was changing. I no longer yearned for the validation I was never going to get. And I started to notice the glaring imperfections of the place I swore would be my ride or die till the end.

All the parts of it that had kept me in blissful suspense — almost to a fault — were no longer visible. I was now a relic of a time long gone. I had surpassed my “one and only” in maturity which meant that I was light years ahead.

There was no way to recapture that magic. And I didn’t want to.

New York is for winners who have mastered the art of defying the odds at their own expense. Everyone loves it there but if you dare to dream make it a good one and don’t sleep on it. You may never wake up.

LA is for losers who have become experts at trying and never giving up. Everyone loves it there and if you dare to dream make it a reality and sleep on it. Because it will come true.

That’s why I love LA.

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