Saturday, April 3, 2010
Everyone in Los Angeles is beautiful.
Well, I’m officially here. Homeless and unemployed, but here. It took four days, three hotel rooms, two fish tacos, and one cell phone car charger (thanks Bucky, Drunk Dougie, Jase and Mom) to get here. I packed up Trixie* like a puzzle, even throwing trivial things in little nooks and crannies that I could find. What surprised me the most, however, was that I could fit my entire wordrobe inside my tiny car. Thanks to gigantic plastic air tight bags, I was able to do it. I had a tank full of gas, money in my pocket, Mike had the GPS, all electronic devices were charged… so what was there to be scared of?
How to fucking dress when I get here, that’s what!
Everyone in this town has amazing outfits on. Even the hookers that I saw outside The Comedy Store tonight! How am I able to have any self confidence -nay- survive with a wardrobe that is worthy of Michigan only? I have wool sweaters and skirts! I wear tights with everything! My flat black boots are my favorite things in the world! It’s hot here! The only light thing I own are my collection of cut up tshirts. Zooey Deschanel and Jared Leto have not prepared me for how to dress in Los Angeles. Maybe if I had Katy Perry’s legs, than I would be able to wear shorts when it got hot. But I don’t, and I haven’t worn a pair of shorts since I was 15 (I’m not joking: that’s eight years, not including pajama shorts and this past Halloween).
Have you looked at the weather forecast? Of course you haven’t. I am the only person that I know who checks the weather obsessively. For the record, it’s been in the high 60s here. Perfect, just the way I like it. Jeans. Hoodie. Fingerless gloves. Miley flats. Check x4. I think I’ll be OK for now. If not, there’s always Melrose.
*Trixie: (n) the name of my beloved 2007 Royal Blue Cobalt. I love her. Too bad I don’t love her enough to get her an oil change on time. Sorry, Homegirl. Maybe next 2,000 miles.