  Today was an intrinsically difficult day. I was thinking too much again. It was a perfect day to listen to the poetry of Fiona Apple and feel connected to the carpet of my room.
I was between thoughts of facts being mistaken for compliments and the irony of Diet Pepsi (crazy, right? I swear it made sense, but there are a lot of things that only make sense at 11:15 AM on the Kool Aid stain in the corner of my room) when I realized that I'm a little crazy.
I suppose I know that being "a little crazy" is a lot like being "a little pregnant", so let me rephrase. I'm not Padded Room Crazy, or even Prozac Crazy. Even more true, I'm not Suicidal Crazy... rather the opposite. All I was to do is live (in a very abstract sense). I'm so terrified that by being an angsty teen from Spokane I'm not really living . I'm obviously existing , converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. And the most Catholic part of my soul reluctantly agrees that God has a plan for me.
Note to the Creator: Is Spokane a necessary ingredient? I say this only because I am a semi-alright baker. I have, on occasion, forgotten certain ingredients and the final product turned out fine. I actually like chocolate chip cookies a lot better without the Baking Soda. That was a pitiful attempt at making a joke, I know. The Ferris Bueller in me wants to skip High School entirely. However the Sinclair Lewis in me knows that I need to eternally struggle with my place of birth.
Lord knows he never would have been the same author if he hadn’t grown up in Saux Center. The struggle brought about through living in a shit hole feeds one’s art (so I’m told). The Mecca of my heart will always be New York City. I fell in love with the Big Apple when I was five. In an attempt to shut me up, my babysitter showed me the movie Annie. From Annie stems every deep-seeded desire I have ever had; to be loved, to have curly hair, to do summersaults into laundry bins, to sing and to dance--- but most of all to live in New York.
When Ms. Hannigan ordered those orphans to make the floor “shine like the top of the Chrysler building” I swear to god I became a new person. I grew older and found SNL (although I like to think it found me). When I learned that the same New York Annie had tap-danced through was the very one that John Belushi made his home, I feel even deeper in love.
I started musical theatre at seven, and when I found out that Broadway was in Manhattan I nearly wet myself. All loves in my life somehow cross with that city. I want to be a part of it so bad… The Burrows are great and Jersey is nice, but I want the city. I want skyscrapers, Radio City Music Hall, taxi cabs, street vendors, the fast-talking East Coasters. I want to maul around in Central Park, hang out in smoky Jazz clubs, thrift store shop in the Village, see every single fucking thing on Broadway.
See, it’s not the longing to be Elsewhere that makes me crazy. It’s the degree, the power, the intensity that makes me question my sanity. The only thing that keeps me from going on a rampage seems to be any remote form of music or cinema or literature. Each transports me metaphorically Elsewhere, even if for a few minuets. Those minuets sustain me until my next “fix”. I'm an addict, except my drug of choice is Art instead of Cocaine. Affectionately… Anna, The Future New Yorker 
