New York - NYC

I went to NYC because I needed to leave London (my ex had just died) and because I had just met a load of nice couriers from there (this is back when I was still a courier).

One of them, a lady courier we will refer to as Fakenger, had said to just let her know when I would be coming into town, I could stay with her. My plan had been to stay in NYC for three months, before coming back to London (at that time it was the amount of time I could leave the UK for without loosing my visa).
When I told Fakenger of my plans, she offered to let me stay for the whole three months! I thanked her, but thought it might be better to sublet something so that I wouldn't be depending on anyone else.
I also decided to spend the first night or two with an old friend/lover as it would be nice to see a known face when I got into a town I'd never been to before.

F/L didn't want me to stay; his flat mate was evidently a psyco, but he didn't really say that until I showed up at his. I left a bag of stuff at his house, and went out to find a bike shop and see some of the other couriers I'd met.

F/L works until 3 in the morning. So I crashed on a random person's sofa and woke up in the morning to find frantic and upset emails from him.
Where was I?
Was I ok?

I decided I had better go and get my stuff and make it up to him, besides, I had finally managed to get ahold of Fakenger who was teaching an evening class and was happy to meet me after and show me to my new home.

As I had time to kill, I went to Bluestockings, an anarchist book shop on the Lower East Side. It was nice, and I chatted to a really nice and friendly guy who works there, Gavin (who is one of the few people in this story I would still refer to as a friend).
He invited me to a punk show in Brooklyn, and I go because I have to waste some time.

I have everything on my back. Everything that isn't at someone else's house in London.
Fakenger doesn't answer her phone for 3 more days.
F/L isn't an option really, house mate doesn't like people (evidently).

Gavin let's me stay the night on his sofa when he realizes that I have no where to go, and introduces me to two girl friends of his that have a flat in Queens, Strange and Bitch.
They offer to let me their spare room for a super cheap price so that they have time to find the right person to live with them permanently, evidently they have had some problems with housemates before.
I find out why.
Strange makes animals stuffed with meat. Don't worry, she's vegan. She just makes little sewn together animals stuffed with meat, then she dehydrates them.
Bitch is hardly ever there, she is very pretty, seems nice, but aloof. I later spot her fiance in a hipster magazine as one of the top up and coming hipsters of the year. He has dreads, is Swedish, but looks kind of oriental.
For a month, everything is ok. I still haven't seen Fakenger, I got a job, and I've had coffee with F/L, and we've ironed out our friendship, but for the most part he is still too busy to show me around or hang out.
I get a job at a courier firm with a cool boss, I meet some nice people. I start seeing a boy who works in a track bike shop. He's nice, although wants me to know that I won't really ever be a part of his life, but that's ok, I'm leaving in a few months.
Then the notes start. "Who used my margerine?" "I wonder if whoever used this dish would dry it and put it away?".
I'm a fairly considerate house mate. There was two pots of marg, one of which was mine, so I just used some. I didn't know that the drying rack for the dishes wasn't meant to be used.
Then Bitch changed the password on the computer so that I could no longer contact my real friends in London. I never used the computer when she was there, and she had said it was ok if I use it, but evidently she had changed her mind and instead of saying something, she changed the password and left town for a few days.
Strange and I decided I should leave.
Immediatly.
So I moved in with the person who I call my only Friend in NYC. The last month was better, but I found out years later that my boss didn't really like me that much, he was just putting it on and taking the piss out of me when I wasn't in the office.
A week before I left NYC, I took the boy out for a nice meal to say thanks for putting up with me being broke for the week before. For dessert he told me that he had slept with someone else and it was over between us.
By the time I got back to London, I was shaking. I was so happy to be home.

In essence, NYC is the place where people pretend to be your friend while doing everything they can in their power to fuck up your life.
They say "let's hang out sometime" and mean "you are not cool enough to lick the slabs of pretension from my boots".

I have met a few nice people there, but the amount of time it takes to sort the chaff from the wheat makes it a hell hole in the truest sense of the word.