The Inner Monologue

Oh, wow, you live west of the park? How quaint. I, of course, reside east of the park, where the real culture is. You wouldn’t understand—your side has one fewer artisanal coffee shops per capita, so it’s basically a wasteland. I’d sooner move to a different city than cross to your barbaric side where people gasp don’t even compost properly.

And don’t even get me started on the people up the hill. Oh, sure, they have their “views” and their “bigger yards,” but at what cost? Their souls, probably. They’re so far removed from the pulse of the neighborhood that they might as well be in the suburbs—the ultimate insult. Meanwhile, the folks down the hill? Please. They claim to be part of the community, but we all know they’re just this close to being absorbed by the next neighborhood over. Posers.

The real tragedy? The people who moved here five whole years ago acting like they’re some kind of founding fathers. “Back in my day,” they say, “this was all just a quiet little strip of overpriced boutiques.” Oh, how authentic of you. Meanwhile, the true locals—those who’ve been here a staggering eight years—roll their eyes and mutter about “the good old days” when the biggest controversy was whether the new wine bar was too wine-bar-y.

And let’s not forget the micro-neighborhoods within micro-neighborhoods. “Oh, you’re in the north part of the district? That’s basically the south part of the other district. Totally different vibe.” Yeah, the vibe of delusion. The only real difference is which overpriced grocery store you pretend to prefer while secretly shopping at the chain store like everyone else.

At the end of the day, we’re all just crammed into the same overhyped zip code, desperately clinging to imaginary borders to feel special. But sure, keep arguing about which side of the invisible line has the real character. I’ll be over here, drinking my locally roasted, ethically sourced, hyper-regional pride—because nothing says “community” like looking down on someone who lives three blocks away.