*Disclaimer: I smoke cigarettes. They are bad for you. I am aware of this.*

Dear East Village Neighbor,

I am so disappointed in you. I mean, seriously, are you kidding me? Asking, no telling me I can’t smoke cigarettes in my apartment? Because you can smell them in the hallway? Are you, as they say, fo’ realz? Do you realize where you live? This iconic street, half a block from Tompkins Square Park, famous for riots and druggies, homeless encampments, a street your preppy ballet flats wouldn’t have walked on ten years ago? Of course, you were probably eleven ten years ago, but that, East Village Neighbor, is not the point. Or maybe it is; maybe you don’t realize where you are, the history lost on you. Well, you’re half a block from the park where Daniel Rackowitz murdered that poor woman and served her in soup to the homeless. This is the East Village. And for all your gourmet cupcake shops and nail salons, and now, God forbid, a Ricky’s, it is still the East Village. Home of artists and dreamers and writers and vagabonds. Home of the homeless, summer home of the Travelers, with their hemp and dreads and pit bull bodyguards. You, East Village Neighbor, are lucky you aren’t walking over people in the hallway, passed out or dead with heroin needles still jammed in their veins. You’re lucky your apartment hasn’t been broken into three times, and that your hot water works more often than not. You know what, East Village Neighbor? You need to chill the hell out. Enjoy the ugly, rundown beauty of living in this insane, history-filled neighborhood. Take a drag of my offending cigarette and fucking relax. Or, you know, move.

XOXO,

Me

Photos of Tompkins Square borrowed from nycgovparks.org, keywordpicture.com, wikipedia.org

Tags: East Village, Neighbors, NYC, Smoking