To Be Free

Caricatures dance on walls. Smiling faces of lost souls wading through their way to success. What one would give to taste a single drop of fame, like speed?

Someone told me once that this land, that magical and mysterious land of Los Angeles, is full of broken souls. It’s history is rooted in the search for renewal, for solace, and unity with something that is not to be found in it’s tangible form and hence, relegated to the occult. It is one’s history that predicts one’s present and future, like a straight road-this includes places too, so is the story of Los Angeles. A city of lost people. Ones who have come in search of opportunity, pillaged the land, and polluted it with their empty, useless presence.

I don’t think there is a single truth, a single gesture of sincerity that comes out of her mouth-the bitch who sucked enough of the right dicks to propel herself to an enviable position of noticeability.

What a puppet! Yet in that city, to be a walking, talking, breathing puppet is a state to aspire to. Never mind self-awareness of how trite all this is.

They call it The City of Angels. Is it because those that find success in the near-impossible circumstance are akin to “the chosen ones”? Why do people search for this type of success, that transcends nothing but whoring themselves out for noticeability?

However one might try to forge a meaningful connection with someone in that Land of The Angels (aka assholes), one hits a dead end.

So much time wasted. Five years. But at last, I am free.

 

Health Insurance in NYC

Upon my arrival to NYC, I tried to be responsible and get health insurance.

If I remember correctly, I’ve mentioned the fact that I’m considered self-employed for tax purposes, and one of my reasons for gtfo of LA is not doing there as financially well as I would have liked relative to how well I predicted I could do in NYC. I’ve never applied for any sort of subsidy while living in Los Angeles, and working in San Francisco. Throughout my time in LA, I either had catastrophic health insurance before the Obama Thing went into effect, and with that, my health premium was actually very low compared to what it would be now under the ObamaCare system. There was also a year where I did exceedingly well, working in San Francisco, and paid for insurance in full, though it covered squat until a high deductible was reached. So in order to apply for health insurance in NYC, upon my arrival here, I used my income from self-employment in Los Angeles in the previous year and was able to qualify for a substantial subsidy.

When you apply via the state for a subsidy, there are a few things worth to consider. This is not something I was aware of prior, as I’d directly dealt with the health insurance company prior and however cumbersome it was at times, it was not nearly as much of a headache as inviting the state as an intermediary in the entire equation just because they are subsidizing your coverage. In order to apply for what is deemed the ObamaCare subsidy, one must go through the New York State Health Exchange. One must apply for them for the type of coverage and the insurer they want. Based on the income information and proof of residence in NYC, the state will approve your application for whatever amount of subsidy they deem you qualify.

Health insurance in NYC is absurdly expensive! I realize that NYC has the reputation of being an expensive city, but from what I’ve gathered, you can keep your expenses comparable to that of LA when you tally up housing, food and transport. As a matter of fact, there are areas of LA where housing costs are on par with some of the most desirable areas in NYC; plus, one needs a car. But I didn’t expect health insurance to be so much more expensive.

Some premiums cost as much as 800/month! I’ve been advised to choose HealthFirst, by a colleague in my industry and by a former classmate from college. The reviews for the health insurance still runs as much as 700/month! The plan gets awful yelp reviews, but it’s cheaper than others, and there are two people who advised me in it’s favor, so why not?

When I was first approved for the subsidy by the state, I neglected to make a timely payment on my premium. I was working a lot, tired and to be honest, downright negligent. I thought I could simply ‘catch up’ on my premiums as I had when I encountered this same scenario but dealt with health insurance company directly in CA. So the state cut of the subsidy. They would not allow me to retroactively make the payments, and simply cut me off. This was unfortunate as my move cross-country qualified me for an extenuating circumstance exception to enrolling in a health plan outside of open enrollment period.

I waited for open enrollment and signed up again. The reviews seem to indicate that a lot of the clinics with this particular plan are medicaid based clinics, so not sure how paying a hefty premium out of one’s pocket plus dealing with the headache of The State to subsidize a portion justifies this caliber of insurance. When I was enrolled in what is called the Silver Leaf Premier Plan (which is supposed to be rather good), I’ve tallied up my costs and with the premium and the deductible of the plan, I would need to pay 4700/year out of pocket before any sort of coverage commences for services. After doing this calculation, I downgraded my plan and the yearly cost is slightly higher, but the premium is a good bit less. Let us hope that the insurance covers preventative services, like a primary care visit with yearly blood work, dental cleanings, and whatever else routine I may be leaving out. This year shall tell.

For a minute, I deliberated foregoing health insurance because it seems like a complete scam. There are low-cost options available for routine visits for people without insurance. The dental portion of the plan is unlikely to cover anything anyhow-one might as well pay out of pocket. If something catastrophic happens, there is always the option of bankruptcy. I realize it’s irresponsible. But then again, how wise it is to pay into the pyramid scheme that is the American Health Care System.

I’ve recently been told that NYC hospitals will not put a black mark on your credit for non-payment if you do not have health insurance. That strikes me as a compassionate approach to health care, just wonder how it plays out in reality.

I’ve yet to start using my health insurance on the marketplace exchange in NYC, but this year should tell how good it is!

American Diversity

With the strong dislike of who is now my former roommate and sharing this dislike with another artist in my former building via gossip, I learned a new word: Ethnocentric.

In my dislike of this bigot, I was being ethnocentric. That is, as if, his cultural background absolves him of personal responsibility for his backward opinions, including negative things said about people of color, people living in the projects, even to much my chagrin, once comparing women to a pieces of property. It don’t matter even if such women work in the sex industry. Dehumanizing another via classism, racism, or sexism is distasteful, in my personal taste of things. I’m not sure if my ascribing one’s bigotry to personal upbringing of a particular ethnic heritage is justified, but either way, I was being ethnocentric. See, I know the word now because I embodied it perfectly. What I’d like to recount though is also my experience of bearing the brunt of other’s ethnocentric attitudes towards me.

As an immigrant myself, I can vouch for the countless rather astounding examples of ethnocentric behavior I’ve experienced. I’ve been in this country for the majority of my entire life; yet, I still encounter microaggressions related to my ethnic background and if not outright, racism (funny point to bring up, since I’m white), definitely examples of having encountered ethnocentric behavior aimed at me.

While living in California, in Los Angeles, with frequent trips to work in San Francisco, I found it especially appalling in the Bay Area. Not sure if I was intentionally mobbed in a highly-coordinated fashion by some idiots with nothing else to do; or whether ppl in that particular region, particularly the whites of that particular region, are a lot more conservative than they would like the world to believe.

For example, I could walk into a bar and have random men start speaking in what they determined was my native language based on the stereotypical national look that I exhibit. This look, ironically, is what is perpetuated by the media as emblematic of the look of most women in my native country. It’s a look of recessive traits. Yet, if you actually go to my home country or otherwise spend a substantial time around people who were born there, you understand that most people with my same country of origin do not necessarily look like me.  Still, I would have men try to make moves on me in bars by speaking in what they deemed was my native tongue. Add the fact that these men are the protypical, untraveled, unworldly, American barroon,  who lack any second language capabilities, and the whole situation just, sounds, wrong. Literally.

Dare I say they sound stupid, they quickly ascribe my bluntness to my country of birth.

Then, that one time I went out on a date from a dude off of OkCupid. He was a balding man slut who looked a little haggard despite being only a few years over 30, who had the audacity to remark that the reason I didn’t laugh at his lame joke was because English was not my first language. Never mind the fact that he seemed too dense to understand the very simple meaning of “no.”

Also, I’ve been asked whether my college degree is from my country of birth.

I’ve been labeled “foreign” in an acting class for the entirety of my duration in it, with no one even questioning as to how that label originated. Anytime I posited a question, the instructor would explain himself very deliberately. Once I finally got fed up, I turned to one of my classmates in my class and almost in tears, asked him why am I labeled in a way that is so ethnocentric, and his response to me was, “Ain’t you foreign?” A few years later, in response to my complaint via facebook post, this same person was one of the most firm in his attack against me because I had ascribed my NYC roommate’s bigotry and misogyny to his cultural background.

Then, when applying for a government subsidy from New York State to help subsidize my bazillion dollar a month health insurance premium (health insurance is especially expensive in New York!!!), I’ve been asked to provide proof of citizenship. If the name on my legal documents was listed as something more American, like Jane Smith for example, I would not face the same level of scrutiny as an immigrant. Just today, I’ve encountered the same thing when requesting copies of my independent contract agreement from a nightclub where I was contracted to work. In order to release a copy certain documentation, specifically a copy of my independent contract agreement, this particular workplace wanted me to prove to them that I was a citizen. Would a driver’s license do? No, send in a copy of your passport. That is considering the fact that I was already hired there, and have since completed my independent contract assignment with this particular establishment, with thousands of dollars made and declared as income-my 1099s should be on the way.

After the occurrence today, I thought I’d jot something down to express my annoyance. It’s annoyance, but it’s also hurt that I will never be one of you.

Not sure how other people do the whole immigration thing, but as for me, I waited four years to enter this country legally, which amounts to nearly half of my life at that point, from age five to nine. I’ve held a Green Card for close to twenty years. I’ve even renewed it, with the help of someone at my college, both financial and in the form of transportation to where I had to submit forms for renewal. All for naught, because as it turns out, thanks to a bill that Bill Clinton signed into law, I derived my citizenship through my mother who was naturalized during the narrow window of time when she actually had custody of me in America. With some effort and letter-writing, I got all my documents in order to prove that I’ve derived my citizenship, and had been a citizen since age 12. I’ve now 32.

I’ve done all my primary, secondary and post-secondary schooling in the US. Like most millennials in America with non-stem, non-tech college degrees, I’m thoroughly qualified to work at a Starbucks, though I don’t think Starbucks would hire me-besides, I’d hate working there, as much as I hate working any other retail I’ve ever worked. I’ve held a variety of odd jobs outside of retail too, all in the United States. I’ve had credit. I’ve had loans, car and student, all of which I paid back. I was not born here, and I never asked to be brought here, though I am not A Dreamer.

What else must I do to prove that I belong here?

I would say that I’m more American than some. I’m not so un-American as to espouse the unfashionable isms of someone from afar, who I’ve heavily critiqued at the expense of sounding like a bigot to others. Yet, I’m constantly ‘otherized.” As a white person, I’d like to say that one can be a victim of ethnocentric attitudes, microaggressions and racism too. Sometimes our way of understanding ourselves is by differentiating ourselves from others, and one way of doing this is by overemphasizing imaginary cultural differences rather than focusing on ways in which we may be alike.

I dunno, maybe that’s a human thing to do, regardless of where you live or where you come from. I’m starting to think more and more that bigotry is an inherently human trait. We all have the need to ‘otherize’ others, as to understand ourselves better and in order to make our own social core stronger. Nonetheless, cultural sensitivity, openness to a change of opinions and focus on similarity rather than our differences, may be a more productive approach for living in harmony and embracing the diversity that we so often like to tout as emblematic of America.

Reflections of Character

It’s come to my attention that I should be weary of the things I say and the things I write. Examine myself. Check myself, as they say. There is so much trash that comes out of my mouth, or that comes out from my head onto paper. It comes out sounding harsh because it is stupid from the very outset, because I did not take the time to think it through enough. So maybe I should commence on: Check[ing] myself.

It’s not as though someone pointed this out. I was re-examining myself, as to what I had been thinking about and expressing, and in a flash of epiphany, this is what I’ve thought up. It’s after what I had expressed (among other things I’ve expressed before but maybe should have kept quiet before thoroughly dissecting and percolating on the thought prior to letting it into the world), having put the thought aside and then come back to it a few days after; I was actually pretty appalled by myself. So: Check myself.

I think it’s probably something we all could do. Check yourself. Of course, I’m only responsible for my own actions, so that is what I’m going to try to begin to do from now on, just in time for the commencement of the New Year. I can only hope others do the same.

Examine myself. Is that what is meant by leading an ‘examined life?’ Maybe, it does, at the most superficial level. I’m sure there is more to the concept. But this is what it begins with at the surface.

Life is tumultuous, unexpected, and stressful. I think it’s even more so the case, as the stereotype goes, in large cites, with Los Angeles and New York City being the case most applicable to me for the purposes of my writing here and one of my most current contemplations.

How does what I say effect others? How do my reactions affect others? Does it hurt them? Does it offend them in much the same way I may be offended at something?

We are all just trying to navigate the competitive metropolis in which we live, claw our way through to the top or enough to gasp for an air of breath before commencing the struggle for another.

Check myself. I hope to commence from thence on.

 

Rich Motherfuckers

Over the course of four years, I worked at a joint in Los Angeles on The Sunset Strip. The joint was situated on the corner of a pretty high-profile area, with billboards of upcoming shows and the famous people in them plastered across. Alongside, one could see the lush greenery of Chateau Marmont going upwards, with it’s drive-way visible and it’s bar within walking distance.

The joint didn’t require a schedule, so I’d pop in every once in a while. I didn’t quite look like I belonged there, so I’d occasionally get stopped by security. When not stopped by security, I’d occasionally have staff stare at me with great intensity, as if I’d resembled someone they’d once seen but could not believe they were seeing again right before their very eyes. I don’t particularly like being treated like a freak show, so good times, good times, which these were. Anyhow…

One time, after a year-long break, with some extra age added to my face by time, drinking and the stress of life of being a not-rich-motherfucker, as well as some plastic surgery which either made me look better or worse (I still don’t know), I came back and wanted to work again but security escorted me into the management’s office, where my ID was checked all the while the security popped in and out in between my conversation with management to say the “Cops are downstairs. The man downstairs is a cop.” There was no one there. I looked around me. Where is the cop? Where is the cop? I looked at the cameras all over the office. There were but a few people sprinkled outside and in, all employees or ‘part of the family,’ the group of people who were friends with the owners or their family. The place was always desolate until midnight and filled up only after 2am after the bars let out, and the rich cheap motherfuckers would stumble in to keep the party that is their life going. One of the owners, an older man whose gentle, perceptive demeanor could easily be mistaken for senility, remembered me despite all the passing and going of the employees over the time of my sabbatical away from LA in SF. He ushered away the man in a panic blabbering nonsense about some police.

“Do you want some alcohol?” “How you’ve been?” “How’s the money you been making?” Everything good? And off I went, to work.

One needs to work with what one has. But when the situation is dire, there is not much one can do. If the customer base consists of entitled rich fucks with no acknowledgement, no respect for those serving them, what is there to do but acquiesce with indignant indifference? So was the period in my life where, like an anathema, I served as a walking charity to the rich. I did well enough, just not good enough, always wanting for more; hence, my move away from the city full of Harvey Weinsteins that I found Los Angeles to be, onto New York, where everyone seemed have their hand out. I could join in the party, without looking like a weirdo. Or worse yet, a bitch.

“Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?” some fool yelled at me, when I dismissed his pressing me to follow him to some event in Malibu as a free companion in hopes of some bread crumbs to peck at as reward. Is that what they call a ‘sugar baby’ nowadays?

The 91 year old role model for all the sugar daddies that ever were: I met his bff. I stopped by Rite Aid to pick up some lady supplies on the way to his multi-million dollar mansion in Holmby Hills because I didn’t want to bleed all over his fancy carpet and furniture. I’m just nice like that.

Check that field trip off my bucket list. I must say it made me guilty to be there-the imprint at the forefront of my mind of the row of homeless people in tents sleeping across my bedbug and roach-infested apartment complex, as I looked on, helpless at what I could do nothing about. I felt like every surface in his home would crumble underneath my touch. Was the poverty imprinted on my fingertips like a contagion?

Do you know who I am? Do you watch television? Do you have a car? Will you need a ride? He looks me up and down. Do you have…the proper attire? His words stung inside me like nicks on skin. I never learned the name of that fool. He gave me a throw-away phone number I could not trace to an address or a name, and so he remained a nobody in my mind.

Months later, I’ve sold my car. I’ve shipped all my attire, proper and not. I’m working at another joint, late into the night, early into the morning, as my life passes by me without my hardly noticing. My new gig’s in a fancy part of town, in NY, this time. “Do you know who I am?” I’m stooping over some drunk rich idiot. I’m yelling, angry. “Why don’t you know who I am?” I’m wearing a short tight dress and some six inch platinum heels, fake eyelashes, hair extensions long enough to earn me a prized spot on some corner along A Blvd. (That’s the look my male bosses want; Bless their hearts). I’m yelling. I’m angry. I wake up. I’m laughing at myself. How ridiculous is the question. Who the fuck cares? Oh, the reverence and the joy of anonymity. There is really no difference between the rich and the poor, see.  We are both equally capable of insulting each other.

When I’d lived in yet another city (not NYC, SF) full of money and trickle down economics in full effect, I’d come home late at night/early morning, sometimes after 12-14 hour shifts, with a purse full of money, thousands sometimes. There was always a man sleeping on the ground right outside the apartment where I rented a room.  Upon hearing the key in the lock, he’d start chuckling. I’d look down at him, he looking up at me, laughing and laughing. I felt bad that I had a set of keys and a purse full of money. And yet, he was the one laughing and laughing. He didn’t ask me who I was. He didn’t seem to care. Most of the time, he only got up to go take a piss on the curb off the sidewalk before returning to his sleeping bag. I hoped he was as happy as he seemed.

I went in. I go in. I’m still here. Just a different place. Not LA. Different Coast. It’s older bitch of a sister with chiseled features and a black leather jacket. I’m not like the man on the ground. I’m a woman walking upright on it. Still a walking charity to the rich, still an anathema, only a little more expensive. And I don’t feel guilty. I’m not made to feel guilty. I am, maybe, a little invincible, even despite the chilling cold or the humid heat of my new city.

 

 

 

Great Expectations

I came to the city, and I did not expect a thing.

What I have now, a few months in, is a few months worth of reflection. Was this what I expected? Was this what I wanted? Is anything ever what I expect it?

I’ve always wanted to live in New York City ever since I found out it existed. My life in Los Angeles was a mere distraction, once I discovered that LA was an actual city that exited on the map, too. So here I am, in NYC, and in many ways, living my self-absorbed dream of self-absorption. I came here with money as my main objective, with the experience of living here-the uniqueness of it-a close second candidate in my priories.

I found a place to live. It is not where I expected. But it suffices, and I’m liking it more and more each day, with all it’s imperfection, I am happy. I found a job. I hate it. But I’m working towards something better, and am hopeful and am never failing to see the positives in my life in spite of the negatives for the time being. I’m not getting rich like I thought be. My financial situation is quite precarious as a matter of fact; such is life.

I don’t go out nearly as much as I can. I have no interest. I like the experience of living in the city, going in and out of work, here and there to wherever I need to, and that is the limit of my desire to experience. I go for long-distance runs, one or two hours each, sometimes more, amidst the most scenic pockets I’ve found in the city within two miles of my home.  I have no friends, only goals and work. Is this the state-of-mind New York city puts one in?

Sometimes I toy around with the idea of returning to LA but it is very far. Hence, is my life.

Were my great expectations fulfilled? Were they great to begin with?

In all truth, I’ve never expected my job to be as physically, emotionally, and mentally demanding as it is. There are days where I cannot get out of bed after working the night before. I’ve been warned by others who’ve known better but I didn’t listen. I’ve started drinking on the job whenever booze is offered because I’m just that miserable. There are people everywhere, noise pollution with music so loud you can feel the walls vibrate and the ground rock under your feet in beat to the music, constant drama from people incapable of regulating their emotions, and overall, a noxious environment in which to be especially if one is not cut out for it due to high-sensitivity and introversion in an environment that requires extreme extroversion and a bit of callousness. And yet, it pays the bills, and then some, sometimes a lot of sum even if the earnings are wildly irregular. Besides, it is to be added with some degree of predictability that anything in New York city, job-wise, is a bit more intense, grind-ish, and difficult than it would be elsewhere. So here I am.

In sum, life is a bit humid here and it is a bit overcast in the metaphorical sense in as much as the literal, but it suffices. And I am happy, if this is what happiness is.

Good Deeds

I won’t go into the specifics of my own goodwill but I just want to throw out some food for thought. These random thoughts are inspired by some recent events in my life. So here goes…

A big city could be callous and cold.  Nonetheless, we all need a little help sometimes. That little bit of help is what can warm it up, after all, metaphorically speaking (no literal-ness needed, if it’s LA, lolz). Whether we live in a big city or small, there is sometimes a need for a helping hand. I’m not sure how group psychology really plays out in this general scheme of thigns: Whether people are more likely to help someone who is obviously in need in a big city such as LA, or whether it’s the reverse. This has been far from my experience in LA but for some with ‘real’ friends, I’m sure it can be different. Nonetheless, there comes a time when one of us needs a helping hand.

It’s no fun being the one in need, and it’s not always a comfortable position to be the one in the position to give. Either way, each one is human. As one that is in a position to give, it’s useful to reflect in awe how little one small good deed can cost you in time and yet, can make such a substantial impact on the recipient’s life.  You don’t need to be a ‘friend’. Surely, this might be taken as a radical idea but I think it perfectly acceptable for strangers to help strangers, too.

The one you help does not need to be close to you. If anything, it is the act of helping someone that can bring you closer. If not, that is ok too. At least, the act brings you closer to the universe (Can you tell, I live(d) in LA?).

To sum up, if someone asks you for help, and it costs you nothing but a few moments of your time, perhaps you should help. Karma is most likely a crock of bullshit but at the very least, you are being the change that I want to see in the world, one person at a time.

Sometimes I wish the world was more kind, yet time and again it proves itself contrary. So try to be kind to all who you meet because you never know what turmoil is behind those placid eyes.

Epiphany about LA

So many people, so little with whom I actually want to have a close relationship. Not to brag or otherwise go into an excessive and boring amount of detail regarding my own LA experience, but I think I may be turning into a misanthrope. Yeah, fancy, I know…

In spite of any negativity, I’ve had a pretty profound epiphany at today’s end. Did you know all those fake people LA is known for and is the very deterrent for the real ones even deliberating a move out here? As a resident, I know better, that there is so much more to LA than it’s stereotype. Nonetheless, there is at least a little bit of truth in every stereotype. So yes, there are plenty of fakes here.

But fake or not, even fake people need love. Fake people are people too, after all. So treat even the pretty people like humans, ’cause they got feelings too. That is my epiphany of the day. Revelatory?

Lost in LA (by accident)

I ended up in LA by accident.

This is not a place where a girl like me would end up. Who ends up here anyhow? What kind of a person does this city, the alluring City of Angels, draw?

It’s a city for movie stars or the movie-star poseurs. Is it not? It’s the central of the universe in Hollywood speak. I think it was Kathy Bates who said that one must be invited to come here. Yet many forego the invitation, instead choosing to come here uninvited. Some do just fine; others, who knows (or cares?)? Most likely, lost in it’s abyss. Life goes on as usual. But it is much more than the physical sign, the concept, the illusion of Hollywood.

The city is home to manufacturing and an array of service industry jobs, public parks, and a growing sustainability sector. For a city of it’s size, of course, there is education, healthcare, transportation, construction….I’m sure there is more but that is just to show that as an economy, LA is diverse. Likewise, is it’s population and landscape. In other words, there is a lot of everything in LA. It’s not just a homogenous meltingpot.

Ok, so where were we?

One day, I went to Vegas. It was by accident that I discovered LA. See, I was working in Vegas but could not bear the thought of living there. The city is so shiny, one needs sunglasses to ward off the artificial strobe lights from the casinos and billboards. Greed and hedonism are it’s driving force. I was making enough to work in Vegas as much as I could, but “park” it elsewhere, so I was looking for a city in CA. SF didn’t work out during my initial visit, but LA did.

I fell in love at first sight. I found a place to rent right around the corner of where I was staying on vacation. It was meant to be.

 

It’s really great, and I love it but I’m going to leave. I leave all the places I love, just like I leave the people I love or the people who love me leave me. It’s all part of the transience of life.

Also, it’s really goddamn expensive. I caught the nasty acting bug from being here. It’s so commonplace, it’s easy to catch. But money is an issue for living here and for indulging the acting addiction problem/thing, and so I’m leaving to a place where I think I can average a more favorable profit to living expense ratio. It’s kind of like Vegas for showgirls, except it’s New York.

There is no money in LA. If there is, it is locked behind ironclad gates. It simply does not trickle down. So if you work in a service-sector job dependent on tips while doing the acting stuff thing, you’re most likely SOL. So many descend upon this city with nothing but a pocket full of dreams. As far as wanna-be entertainment people go, the market is so saturated with wannabees that there are simply not enough jobs to go around, even the below minimum wage ones. And so everyone tries to look busy, to claim busy-ness but in reality, we are all twirling our thumbs busy avoiding each other. Am I going to hate NYC this much?

In all honesty, I had a bad year here. I’ve been here a total of five. The last one was especially trying, and by far the worst. Money. Lack thereof. People. Shitty. That is why I’m running away. Maybe I’ll tell you all about it later.

A friend told me to be careful, people here are not like anywhere else. When people say that people in LA are “fake,” it doesn’t mean plastic. It means that when you’re getting chewed up, you don’t even know until you’ve been spit out.

But it’s ok. It’s pretty here, and the sun is warm and it makes me feel all fuzzy inside even if it is nothing but an delusion of safety within a dangerous jungle. And I’m leaving.

If you’re obscenely rich, LA is a good place to retire. When you can afford to guard yourself figuratively and physically from all of harm’s way, it is a great place. I cannot quantify the feeling of peace as I drive into the more mountainous parts. Or how picturesque looks the spill of orange as the sun sets over the beach line in Venice. There were times where I’d go hiking up to the Griffith Observatory every single day. The Los Feliz area around it is quite quaint. And apart from the charlatans of any city, there are many genuinely nice people who emanate a warmth I’ve yet to encounter anywhere else.

As I deliberate a move out, I’m conflicted. Obviously. I’ve learned to hate it somewhat because it’s irked me so but I will always love it. Like a vixen who has nothing to offer a man other than her ever-fading beauty, I think I’ll break it off before I end up like the man who fell in love with a beauty who indulged his love with bankruptcy. I hope I make the right choice.

Therein lies all my ramblings Los Angeles, NYC: The modern day of two cities.