Will Never Be a Barney Stinson

Now even though I do not live in the city, my dream has always been to live in a city and feel like I am in a sitcom such as How I Met Your Mother. But let’s get back to reality. I will never live a rich life in NYC such as Barney Stinson or have enough money to go to the bar that would be under my apartment everyday. Because who has enough money to get a drink everyday? I follow (like a normal teenager) a bunch of Instagrams relating to the city and always fantasize how my Instagram will be full of me going out with my friends and meeting a new guy every night. Now that makes me laugh because we all know that I’ll have enough money for Ramen to eat and stay in my apartment being introverted. Now back to my real reason for writing this (you’ll see how off track I got) was because I was just casually stalking my favorite Instagram “humansofnewyork”. This is a photographer who lives in the city and everyday picks a stranger that he finds interesting and asks for their story. And each story is unique. My constant worry for the future (besides not having enough money and always having to depend on my parents) is what happens if this photographer finds me interesting and asks me for my story. Do I have to say the first thing that comes to mind? Should I carry a little autobiography with me all the time just in case? I’m afraid I’ll have nothing to say and he’ll move on to someone who was more interesting than me and knew what they were doing. I have no story because I have no exact plot. Am I trying to find myself in a big city or find my confidence or find love or all three? My story will never end with an “End”, it will end with a “To be Continued”.

Stories

Yesterday I sat in the backseat of our family’s van or cruiser or however you’d like to call a big Mercedes. We were once again going to a restaurant for my mother’s birthday and of course family drama made the end of a birthday week (excuse my French) crappy. We rode in silence through the different streets full of different people of different ages and genders and nationalities. Each one had a story. It made me wonder: When people look at our family of four from far away, observing us, what do people think our story is? Did it look like I was worrying about what everyone thought of me? Worrying about college? The future? New York is full of people with different stories. I looked out the window as I neared the Brooklyn Bridge and looked at all the buildings’ lights and realized that in this city everyone had a different story but they all shared one thing: being worried. Even if you are the happiest person in the world with a positive attitude with a job you enjoy there is always something one worries about. Whether it be finding love in a world of 7 billion people or finding confidence in yourself, we all worry. It is a normal part of a human being and everyone should worry once in a while. Stress is normal. And as I pass through the streets of Manhattan, I realize that every person in every building in every car is all either starting a different chapter, in the middle of a chapter or ending a chapter in their lives. All these chapters contributing to each of their own stories.