The best part about living in Los Angeles?
The interesting, eclectic people and cultures in which you are constantly soaking. The perpetual, electric, neverending flow of creativity and collaboration. The awesome, bonding, “WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER” attitude that pervades the entire place. The notion of supporting each other, helping each other, building community, building family, and getting your foot in the fucking door SO THAT ALL YOUR BRILLIANT FRIENDS CAN BUM-RUSH IN RIGHT ALONGSIDE YOU.
The WORST part about living in Los Angeles?
The fact that your TALENTED, LUMINOUS, HILARIOUS, DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS, PLATINUM & PURPLE-HAIRED HIPSTER CHILD KEEPS GETTING FUCKING HIT ON HARD BY A BESOTTED, ENCHANTED [insert name of VERY famous 90s rock musician who is old enough to be her goddamned father here] AT NEARLY EVERY EVENT THAT SHE ATTENDS. You better BACK THE FUCK OFF, son.
MAMA DON’T PLAY.