This Is What I Know About L.A.
This is what I know about L.A.: You're not from here. You came here.
You take a lot of airplanes and you hate it. You've got a lot of appointments, for your hair, or throat, or your face, or your vagina.
There are a lot of things that excite you, like pretzels, or BBQ's, or tacos, or shrimp tacos, or lobster and crab.
You have so many cravings, for juice and dieting, and exercising with pool toys on a Pilate's machine.
You had a belly button ring, or tongue ring, but that was like 14 years ago.
You are the nicest most selfish person I know, I love you so much.
You can get anything from someone you know. But all I know is that I want ravioli for dinner at midnight, and I can't have that.
There is no fucking parking at your apartment, or mine, but I am mad if it's your apartment that doesn't have parking.
Everyone should die.
I could sleep in a large hole in the pavement; doesn't it ever just look like heaven to you? Like a little potted cactus, with that red flower on top, so snuggly kept.
I constantly think about how much more sex the homeless people here must have than me.
Your sister will scream in excitement if you take her for frozen yogurt.
Dudes love sandals, and those dudes will never actually experience love.
I hope we never talk at dinner.
We all just want to look at water or trees, or just drink champagne, that's all that ever happens here.