Don't move to New York City if you know your comfort zone. It will be shattered, and shattered again, by the smell of Chinatown garbage mountains broiling in August heat, or by the anxiety that courses through your skull while you scrabble from payday to payday in a booze-rinsed haze, or by the terrifying frankness of wanting to kill -- to literally murder, at least for a moment -- every last one of the jackasses who packed like sardines into your rush-hour L car. The malaise is constant. If you're not able to deflect it, it will consume you. If you can't roll with the punches, NYC will knock you out.
If hope is a dangerous thing, NYC is the world's most dangerous place. Your casual post-college optimism is a liability here. Either stuff it in a box and leave it in the suburbs, or stay there with it. But don't bring your doe-eyed naivete with you when you move here, or it'll be taken from you. New York City asks you to sustain yourself on briefly shimmering fragments of happiness nestled amidst the wreckage of daily reality. In other words, it asks you to grow up. Don't move to New York City if you're not ready to yet.