In deepest, darkest Los Angeles smack-dab in the middle of the Reagan Era, residents were terrified to sleep lest they become the next victim of a serial killer the press were calling “The Night Stalker.”
Your rent is cheaper in New York. Your shower is smaller in Los Angeles. If you close your eyes and your banking app, you can’t tell which one you’re in anymore.
“The electronics in my car started to go haywire. The radio was randomly changing stations while the volume kept going up and down.”
You never wanted to live in Los Angeles. I never wanted to live in New York. There we were, standing on two different ends of the country unwilling to find common ground.
Everyone is on their phone. The addiction to social media is REAL.
I told myself I’d write about the time we parked your station wagon at the top of the Hollywood Hills by the bird streets and sat and talked during Thanksgiving break. I don’t even remember if we kissed.
Cursing an Editor: May no one understand what you do, how you do it, or why it’s important. May this eat away at your soul, forever.
If someone tells you they’ve got it all figured out on a Monday, congratulations, because you’re clearly talking to Beyoncé.
He’s sitting on his couch, playing Madden and pretending to be an actor.
She said, I am an introvert but had to develop tricks to fake being an extrovert because of where I worked.