Kaitlin Phillips

All articles by this author

NO YOLO

NO YOLO

New York Does Kaitlin

I’m sitting in my new friend’s room at her grandparents’ house overlooking Washington Square Park. She writes poems; I ask her why she’s feeling underappreciated. She takes a pill, and says, quite seriously, “You know there’s this feeling in New York that, like, I’m just going to be an insider secret.” I don’t think that, I say. “Yes! Yes, you do think that,” she says evenly. “You think I’m going to be a person that only people in the know know.”

“Sometimes I feel like an art handler,” Rachel says, of other people. “You know, a little to the left. Better.”

NO YOLO

NO YOLO

New York Does Kaitlin

I’m sitting in my new friend’s room at her grandparents’ house overlooking Washington Square Park. She writes poems; I ask her why she’s feeling underappreciated. She takes a pill, and says, quite seriously, “You know there’s this feeling in New York that, like, I’m just going to be an insider secret.” I don’t think that, I say. “Yes! Yes, you do think that,” she says evenly. “You think I’m going to be a person that only people in the know know.”

“Sometimes I feel like an art handler,” Rachel says, of other people. “You know, a little to the left. Better.”