Things I experienced in Los Angeles
Which I am now reminding myself of so I don't get too misty-eyed about not being able to be there this summer
Arriving at my short-term rental in the most cursed section of Hollywood (between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, about three blocks from the Chinese Theater) only to discover that, despite my best efforts, no one seems to know that I’m coming.
Calling the (very confused) guy I had been told to call by the property management company, and then sitting on my suitcase outside the building for several hours as I waited for him to bring me the keys.
Meeting my roommate—like, in the collegiate sense, like we were very much sharing a bedroom—for the first time, when she had apparently not been informed of my existence.
Cowering apologetically as my roommate yelled at the key guy.
Sharing a room with my roommate who, while very sweet, had a tendency to talk at length about Scorpios/collagen powder/butt workouts/the beautiful Christian testimony of Justin Bieber’s mother, usually while I was watching Netflix with my headphones on.
Washing dishes at my unpaid internship.
Washing dishes at my unpaid internship, right as the billionaire founder of the company smiled and put more dishes in the sink.
Two hour bus rides with multiple transfers just to get out of Hollywood.
That time the air conditioning broke when it was 110 degrees out.
That time I spent the night with a guy who straight up didn’t have air conditioning when it was 110 degrees out.
That time I ended up at a party in Venice Beach populated exclusively by 30 year olds.
That time I decided to walk twenty minutes home alone, at night, along Sunset Boulevard, assuming there would be consistent streetlights.
Reader, there were not consistent streetlights.
Making small talk at events at Kevin Winston’s house.
The guy on the street who asked if I was interested in modeling for music videos and who, in hindsight, was probably a sex trafficker.
That time a bus straight up didn’t come for half an hour, at which point I called a Lyft, at which point the bus showed up, at which point I tried to cancel the Lyft, at which point it was too late, at which point I was already on the bus, at which point I effectively paid seven dollars to stand up on a catastrophically crowded bus when I could’ve been relaxing in the spacious backseat of an unemployed actor’s Prius.
Bus masturbators.
The time I drank two giant fancy cold brews and thought I was dying of heat stroke.
The time I took one of my friend’s weed gummies, forgot about it, and on the bus home thought that I was dying of heat stroke.
That time my roommate brought people back to our apartment for an afterparty at 5 a.m. and they woke me up by loudly doing cocaine in the living room.
The three guys who then stayed for breakfast the next morning, especially the photographer who alluded to having been forced out of San Diego because “some bitch” was “making up lies” about him, and stayed until literally 5 p.m. He kept trying to give my roommate a massage and asked me if my breasts were real. I finally told him to get out and he got whiny. I remember this so vividly. It was the day of the 2018 World Cup Final.
Absolutely bombing at an open mic in Santa Monica.
That time I invited some friends to hang out at my building's rooftop pool and a strange man who may or may not have lived in the building got in the hot tub with us and wouldn’t leave.
That time I agreed to go clubbing with my roommate and we went to this awful yet extremely crowded club in Hollywood where I paid a promoter $20 to palm me a fake ID. We got extremely drunk on vodka mixed with a sweet red liquid that made the taste of vodka completely disappear at a concentration of approximately one part per million. A Canadian defense contractor bought me an $18 gin and tonic. I made out with him in the courtyard. Then my roommate texted me to say she was calling the Uber and I ran away.
The morning after I agreed to go clubbing with my roommate, when I had made 10 a.m. coffee plans with a nice Yale grad in the film industry. I was more hungover than I’d ever been in my depraved young life. I woke up, threw up, got dressed, took a Lyft to the coffee shop, threw up in the coffee shop bathroom, cleaned vomit off my glasses, came out, sat with the nice Yale grad, drank an espresso black, chatted about movies, enjoyed myself, excused myself, threw up in the bathroom, returned, chatted more, showed a clip of a short I was working on, went to pay, went to bathroom instead, threw up, returned to line, nice Yale grad paid and also offered me a ride home, thanked nice Yale grad profusely, prayed I would not throw up in his car, returned to apartment, threw up, slept.
Unpacking La Croixs at my unpaid internship.
Offering guests water at my unpaid internship, then having to ask “Sparkling or still?” then having to ask “Perrier or La Croix?” then having to ask “Pamplemoose, berry, or lime?” and all the while I’m making eye contact with someone who isn’t Daveed Diggs but is the exact level of famous of Daveed Diggs and we are both saying with our eyes “Truly we are both trapped; none of us are free.”