You could move to New York City. Rent an 852-square-foot apartment for $5,503 a month. Blow $500 on three “first dates” a week and somehow remain single for six years. Finally meet someone you like, then discover they’re “not really looking for anything serious right now.” Get a master’s degree so you can qualify for an internship. Apply to 147 jobs, get 93 automated rejections, and finally find an “entry-level” position requiring five years of experience. Eventually land a six-figure job and still need a roommate to make rent. Pay federal income tax, New York State income tax, AND New York City income tax because apparently living there is a three-level subscription. Learn that a “quiet neighborhood” means the sirens only come by every 20 minutes. Pay $27 every day for a sandwich (no sides) because the place has exposed brick and a handwritten menu. Take the subway to work every morning and develop the useful skill of pretending not to notice absolutely anything happening around you. Spend 45 minutes traveling three miles. Carry your groceries home six blocks because parking near your apartment is more of a philosophical concept than an actual possibility. Have “owning a washer and dryer” become one of your primary measures of generational wealth. Walk past a mountain of trash bags on your way to a restaurant with a Michelin star. Tell your friends back home you don’t need a car while spending $46 on an Uber because the subway is delayed again. Go to Central Park when you want to remember what trees look like. Spend your twenties telling everyone you could NEVER live anywhere else. Then one day you visit your cousin in Iowa. He has a house with four bedrooms, a garage, a yard, two cars, four kids, and somehow pays less than you do for the apartment where your refrigerator touches your couch. But hey. The NYC bagels are incredible.