not from brooklyn

Hello there, I’m ample parking.  Yeah, I know, but something about vespas and single-gear bicycles in the winter or rain just doesn’t vibe with me.  And let’s face it: no one looks good with a bumper bully on.  What the fuck is “alternate side parking”?

I’m not from Brooklyn.

Hi, I’m a house.  I’m comprised of different floors, back yard, garage sometimes.  Oh, and I have space.  No, you can put your personal belongings in that thing called “your own bedroom”.  No need to drop your twin mattress behind the couch.  Right, you could buy me, but there are some of us that you can rent for fractions of the cost of your exposed brick studio.  Oh wait, you have how many roommates?

I’m not from Brooklyn.

Hi, I’m a diner.  Not a quaint, cute corner cafe with free wifi.  Not “Brooklyn Brunchtopia Bistrotec and Charcuterie”.  Just a diner.  When people ask each other, “hey, you want to go to the diner?”, they know what they mean and where they’re going.  No need to legitimize my goods by frivolously adding Brooklyn in the name.  We have scrambled eggs and pork roll.  Yes, pork roll.  Look it up, it’s delicious.

I’m not from Brooklyn.

Hi - I’m blue jeans.  Regular, denim blue jeans.  I’m not skinny, frayed, or rolled up at the bottom.  I’m not squeezing the life out of genitalia.  I’m blue jeans.

I’m not from Brooklyn.