It’s Winter in LA, but you couldn’t tell by looking at it. Things don’t die here, even the buildings get facelifts. We are immune to Winter. We are better than that.
It’s Winter in LA, and all the imports have returned to their respective small towns, where no doubt the local celebritism that made them move here in the first place is sadly affirmed.
The prettiest girl in every midwestern high school, the music prodigy, the theatre buff with the chiseled jaw.
And for the rest of us, who were formed in the trenches of learned celebrity nepotism, in the changing thraws of cool and uncool, will basque in the “gratitude” of less traffic, shorter lines at erewhon, and resentful, competitive comradery with our fellows- who also grew here, when you flew here.
Those of us whose parents were sick enough to think this was an appropriate place for a child, who grew up drunk on bourgie enlightenment, who grew up feeding us adderall as we bounced between psychics and psychiatrists.
I am getting tired of this scene and the 2000’s cosplay, the same rotating faces lining up to infantilize themselves, for another dreadful evening of “Whose Who.”
We’ve all slept with the same people. I couldn't tell you if this is because of karmic soul contracts or a lack of creativity , but IT IS equal parts interesting and disgusting. We float-glide even, in these incestous circles, prancing around nightclub to nightclub, swapping sexually transmitted demons. Oh the LA natives, so tragically unusual, so immune to cool.
Make sure you pretend not to notice the most notorious person in the room, which will no doubt rotate to each of us eventually. Hold your breath, be careful about what you say- because for whatever reason, we are all pretending we are on the precipice of becoming, incredibly, monumentally, successful.
You better be careful how nice you are to me. Haven’t you heard, I am going to be directing something very important, almost soon. Please adore me. And notice my strange shoes.