There could be a whole different story about her relationship to New York City, and maybe the world does not need another story set in/about growing up in/that is a gritty portrait of/that is a love letter to New York City. Probably not the latter. Maybe a reconciliation with. Anyway it’s a different story. The point here is that she thinks of New York as one more of her many complicated parents who maybe could have done a better job but in the end all made her who she is, for better or worse.
I’m leaving! You didn’t pay attention to me.
Eight million people live here, sorry not sorry.
I was a little kid. You could have at least hidden a few more exposed dicks.
We had bigger problems back then. You should be grateful. Didn’t you always have a roof over your head? Did we not give you a shit ton of art and culture? Did you not go to musicals and concerts and Macy’s Day Parades and all the museums, did you not go on class trips on the Circle Line, did you not go ice skating in Central Park, did you not see the Rockettes at Radio City and The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, did you not fucking stand on a stage at Lincoln Center when you were eight years old and sing in the goddamned opera?
Okay but whatever I can’t afford you!
Not my problem.
But you give other people rent-controlled apartments that fall from the sky! You like them better!
That’s not true, I love all my eight million children equally.
You don’t!
Hey I did the best I could. You’re a grown-up now. Figure your shit out.