This is the nature of being in your twenties. It’s nearly impossible to have all the boxes checked, unless you’re one of those RARE BREED OF TYPE-A PSYCHOS THAT DOES.
I text him the next morning, “Nice to meet you.” He writes back an emoji of a red balloon.
This is how I picture Lana: a cool, disaffected girl who would smoke cigarettes with you in the parking lot of your high school, a girl who was the first to lose her virginity in her group of friends, a girl who was never particularly ambitious but things just happened to her, things that everyone else wished for and worked so hard to get but couldn’t.
My life was going 120 MPH, except it was actually going in slow-motion because I was sitting in front of a computer screen 12 hours a day clicking refresh, refresh, refresh.
“I need to be with someone who isn’t afraid to look stupid,” he finally said. “Otherwise, I just feel stupid.”
They were too busy shooting up a drug I like to call Single Person Heroin. Its street name is Tinder and it comes in the form of a dating app that allows you to peruse the profiles of nearby singles.
I start seeing a trainer once a week. He’s hot, from Ohio, and likes to eat lettuce wraps from PF Chang’s. I like him and I think we have fun productive sessions together, but I still have no idea what the hell is going on. I do weightlifting, I think? I do cardio, I think? I drink four margaritas and eat guacamole and chips after a workout? Yes, that I know.
I remember certain nights for no reason. I recall them with such a fondness you’d think that it was the night I met my one true love or something. Not even close.
This was not the plan. I had imagined LA to be the place where I went on daily hikes, drank cold-pressed juices and told strangers named Moonshadow that I was in a “really healthy place” but instead, I gained ten, fifteen, maybe twenty pounds.
There are a lot of disgusting people in Los Angeles. There are a lot of disgusting people in New York too but for some reason I find the New York breed of terrible easier to handle.