I won’t raise my children in New York City because I am a know-it-all. If I raise them here, on this people-covered rock teeming with culture, germs, and drugs, they’ll think they know more than I do. I’ll be damned if I can’t enjoy at least a few years of lying to my kids before they get wise.
Beatrice & Lucifer should have real friends, not third-marriage turd-scions of some ruling-caste NYC art family. I’m talking about boys named Billy and girls named Michelle. You know — normals. Amidst these milquetoast suburban monikers, my kids may come to appreciate their oddball appellations. But in this godforsaken place, there’s a Lucifer on every corner.
I won’t raise my kids in NYC because I’ve been selfish for a long time. It’s been great, really. Once I become a parent, I want to be them-ish. But this post-apocalyptic asphalt animal eats your selflessness for breakfast. If we lived in the city, I’d say, “Hey Beatrice & Lucifer, want to go to the planetarium to learn more about our universe?”, hoping to share with them the joy of the cosmos. Three hours later, we’ll be halfway to the Rose Center, waiting for a goddamned shuttle bus transfer that’ll never come. Beatrice will be demanding 16 Handles. Lucifer will be farting profusely. I’ll hate my brood for ruining my Saturday.