I’ve been going to a lot of doctor’s appointments because that’s something that I literally never had time or money to do in New York. I was not rich enough to take care of my own body. I still have PTSD from taking a screaming Cleo an hour-and-a-half on the ferry to every one of my OB appointments for Cass, all the while feeling like I would die from exhaustion because I was still breastfeeding her. Those were not optional. I saw that Jerry Seinfeld article saying that New York will come back. He wrote that the reason why was:

“Because of all the real, tough New Yorkers who, unlike you, loved it and understood it, stayed and rebuilt it.”

You know what, Fuck YOU, Jerry Seinfeld. You’re worth $950 million. I have no doubt you’re in your $35 million mansion in Long Island right now, watching one of your children ride a thoroughbred pony.

I’m currently worth $242 (minus $100,000 and counting in student debt) and that’s because my New York state unemployment check hit last night. I was born at Albert Einstein hospital in the Bronx. I had two parents whose tactics of corporeal punishment were considered benign compared to getting stabbed on Morris Avenue in broad daylight. I spent 16 years living like a motherfucking rat in Brooklyn. I had two 9 pound babies while living in a fourth floor walk-up. I recovered from MRSA THREE TIMES while taking care of a newborn and a 2-year-old ALONE in a 700-square-foot apartment. I moved during a pandemic. Yesterday, I gave myself a shot in my motherfucking leg so that I could recover from a vitamin deficiency. I am tough as hell, and the reason why people are leaving New York is because of people like Jerry Seinfeld, who made it a motherfucking white-washed, clean, dog-shit-and-character-free fantasyland for billionaires, while the rest of creative people had to work three jobs just so that would could blog for 20 minutes a week about our fucking FEELINGS.

The reckoning is here, people. New York has been unaffordable for most people for years, and people are not leaving because of the pandemic, but because the pandemic finally gave them the excuse to pussy up and get the Fuck out of the city. You’re not tough enough to stay isn’t enough of a scare tactic when all of the restaurants are closed, and white tractor trailer morgues are being set up in full view of the street. You can call someone a wimp, and now that they’re out, they’re like, “Haha, Fuck you, at least I can afford the time to get a PAP smear so that I can learn whether or not I have CERVICAL CANCER from the HPV I GOT FROM SOME DIRTY AND DISGUSTING IVY LEAGUE EDUCATED WHITE DUDE LIVING THE DREAM IN THE NYC.”

I’m still afraid of being in the South. I have seen one fucking Biden-Harris sign, painted by a local artist named Panhandle Slim. But I have seen a lot of Trump signs. I see Trump bumper stickers. Yesterday, at the doctor, I saw an old guy wearing a Trump hat. I was tempted to sit next to him, and make him watch me read The New Yorker.

I feel flashes of rage when I see these things. I am trying to move past my rage, and towards a place of more wisdom. What I came up with is that these people who are flashing their Trump allegiance are flexing. And what does flexing symbolize? Fear. These people are afraid that liberals are going to make cities more unsafe, and take away their health insurance, and kill retarded babies after they’ve already been delivered from their EVIL BITCH MOTHERS. They’re also afraid that they’re bad people. That’s the real fear. They’re afraid that what the liberals say about them is true — they’re deplorable. They’re stupid. They’re disgusting. So they’re like, “Yeah, look at me, I am a Trump voter” as a form of protection against you saying something worse. Like they’re old. Or they’re not as rich as their best friend. Or their wife is ugly. Or they never accomplished much in their life. Or that no one has touched them with a gentle hand in 20 years.

Today, I went to the OB-Gyn. The doctor was a man. He was quick with the pap smear. He just pushed the speculum up my vagina, no warning, no lubrication. At the end of the exam, he asked me if I had any questions. I mentioned to him that people still ask me all of the time if I’m pregnant.



Honest to god, I expected that he would then examine me for diastis recti, a condition in which the abdominal muscles in your body are separated. Or, like a female doctor in Brooklyn, would suggest that I only eat carbohydrates only one meal a day.

Here’s the truth. When I tell doctors that I am upset that people still ask if I’m pregnant, I’m asking them if they know how I can lose weight, look better, and be more accepted by society. I’m asking them how I can be less deplorable. And they know it. Whether you call a stomach protrusion diastis recti, or being fat, you’re still saying, “I’m imperfect, and I want to hide that my body did labor so that I fit the feminine ideal of flat stomachs and big boobs as prescribed by society for the past 100 years.”

The doctor looked in my eyes, above my mask.

“Listen, let me tell you the truth, you’re not going to get rid of that pouch, you had two babies,” he said. “I just did an examination on you, and I can feel your muscles. You just have a lot of extra skin on top of those muscles.”



“I had two nine pound babies,” I told him.



“Yeah, and your body is never going to recover from that,” he said. “Which is why I think you should do something nice for yourself, and go see a plastic surgeon.”



“I’ll give you a card at a place where you can get a discount,” he continued. “A little liposuction, and you’ll be perfect.”



And honestly, I wanted to hiss at him. But I also am laughing as I’m writing this. It feels great to be told, after four years of “gentle and women-centric” bullshit that ultimately arrives at the same thing — you need to get back to your pre-baby body as soon as possible — someone finally told me, “Listen, unless you get a surgical procedure, it’s not going to happen.”

And maybe that’s what I’ll enjoy about being down here in the South. All of those layers of bullshit and moral authority people in Brooklyn had are stripped away. Honestly, what I’m finding is that human beings in New York and human beings in Georgia are largely the same. NPR is even mostly the same! They have fucking Rao’s marinara in every fucking grocery store! It’s just the way that they perceive themselves that is a little different.

That last sentence was so vague, but I just realized I forgot to do two phone interviews this morning, so Fuck it, I’m leaving it.