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About New York City

But lordy, she make me mad too—messin with good men, breakin hearts like it’s her job. “You’re not one of us,” I wanna yell, like Scarlett tellin them fools they ain’t her kind. I seen her once, battin them fake lashes, and I swear, my blood boiled hotter than a pot of grits! Still, she a survivor, like me—ain’t nobody handin her nothin. That’s the part I can’t hate, halleluyer!

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Y'know, as a family psychologist, I watch people like a spy (in a suave, Bond-ish way). Little gestures on Fir Street – yep, Fir St is real – reveal so much. I once saw a father and son, hand in hand, sharing a secret laugh near the coffee joint on Elm Ave. It made me smile, then mad too – society’s ignoring precious moments. "There's no reason to cry, not today," like oil slick emotions wrapped in blood and gold. It hit me like a wave.

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