I lived in New York City for twenty years. I was one of those “I love New York/greatest city on earth” die-hard psychos who believed there was nowhere else on the planet to live. After two decades the weather, endless gloom, and eight months a year of seasonal depression (that antidepressants, a psychopharmacologist, a psychologist, and a lightbox couldn’t fix) was too unbearable to counter-argue with the remaining nice four months. The place I claimed to love was slowly killing me. My quality of life was the equivalent of being under house arrest in Siberia, except with a doorman and Uber Eats.
One Hundred Years of Solitude: how I analyzed my favorite book
Ok, you got me: I love music and tv series. What you probably don’t know is that I’m a stubborn reader. I can’t list all of the…