I can't deny that little nuggets like this give me joy about my decision to move to LA from NYC. [Insert smug emoji here]

- M

Griffith Park. Pic by Magdalena Wielopolski ©

Griffith Park. Pic by Magdalena Wielopolski ©

No, I'm from New York.

“Welcome to Los Angeles”? Thanks, but no, thanks—I’m from New York. I don’t need to engage in cordial small talk with strangers. In New York, we greet newcomers by giving them incorrect directions to Times Square and criticizing the way they spread their cream cheese.

Already ripe avocados? Get out of here with that nonsense, Ralphs. I’m from New York, where, in lieu of avocados, grocery stores put out six hundred petrified dragon eggs and shoppers must squeeze every last one of them before buying the softest but still rock-hard option, and then bring it home and watch it go from unripe to completely rotten without ever once being edible. That’s how New Yorkers do avocados.

Oh, L.A. has perfect weather? More like pathetic weather. I’m from New York, where the weather is only nice two days a year, and do you know what we do on those two days? We stay inside and work, because we’re New Yorkers and we’ve got too much stuff to do to care that it’s lovely outside. We only find out that it was nice at the end of the day, when we’re leaving our offices at 9 p.m., and a co-worker says something in the elevator about the weather. Do we feel regret that we missed our chance to experience an actually enjoyable climate? No! We just wish this other person would stop talking to us, so we can escape into the now freezing/scalding/hailing/pit-stain/slush-bucket awful environment that awaits.

A two-bedroom house with a front yard and a back yard? Psh. What do you need all that space for? Yoga? I’m from New York. I once paid two thousand dollars a month to live in the freight elevator of the former Filene’s Basement, in Union Square. Then I paid five thousand dollars a month to live in the garbage chute of a postwar luxury condominium on First Avenue. It’s important to live in terrible places when you’re young. A postwar! On First Avenue! That’s how you build character. All of this “actual house” business makes you soft.

Read the full article at The New Yorker.