I'm pretty high right now.
I haven't done any drugs, but I've been inhaling paint fumes for days. Eight hours a day, for four days straight, I've been crouched in the dimly lit hallways of my building while painters shellac each resident's door. The doors are all wide open, so I'm basically working security detail. I hate my job. Not that these fuckers are grateful...they look at me suspiciously as they walk by. Fuck. I hate it when people look at me, especially my tenants.
The only source of natural light is the dingy picture window at the end of the corridor. It has bullet holes that predate my particular managerial administration. If I were very motivated, I could petition the building owner for new glass...but I kind of enjoy them. Those holes are a reminder that my neighborhood used to be a ghetto. Outside, I can see the spires of the Grauman's Chinese theatre and behind them, the Kodak Center where the Oscars are held every year. If I were to peer out the front window, I could also see the wrought iron sign atop the Roosevelt Hotel... but those are the only vestiges of fame and glamour to be found. This is Hollywood.
Hollywood isn't a real place. I'm not trying to be profound...it literally does not exist as a city. The only Hollywood is in Florida. No, Hollywood is the term for a Los Angeles neighborhood that is located beneath a sign that used to read "Hollywoodland". Hollywood is an ideal manufactured by the publicity machine, not a place. Certainly not this place. This place boasts two types of inhabitants: wannabe's and immigrants. Both are broke, and both have ventured far from home in search of a better life.
I am one of these people, caught in an endless loop of headshots and yoga and bounced checks and booze and spray-tans and networking and organic vegetables. I twist myself around and around looking for the answer. Self-analysis. Self-love. Creative expression. It's all psychological masturbation. The only answer is to live in a different place.
The sky outside is white with smog. Not Boyfriend once joked that it wasn't pollution blanketing the sky after all, but the dust of millions of disintegrated Hollywood dreams. It's a valid theory. This is a place for the desperately optimistic.
I live in an ideal named after a housing development.
Perhaps I'll discuss this negativity next time I visit my Beverly Hills analyst. Or perhaps analysis is not the answer, maybe I need to take a Tai Chi lesson in the park. Of course it's possible that I'm simply ingesting too many pesticides. For now...I need to make a Starbucks run.
I haven't done any drugs, but I've been inhaling paint fumes for days. Eight hours a day, for four days straight, I've been crouched in the dimly lit hallways of my building while painters shellac each resident's door. The doors are all wide open, so I'm basically working security detail. I hate my job. Not that these fuckers are grateful...they look at me suspiciously as they walk by. Fuck. I hate it when people look at me, especially my tenants.
The only source of natural light is the dingy picture window at the end of the corridor. It has bullet holes that predate my particular managerial administration. If I were very motivated, I could petition the building owner for new glass...but I kind of enjoy them. Those holes are a reminder that my neighborhood used to be a ghetto. Outside, I can see the spires of the Grauman's Chinese theatre and behind them, the Kodak Center where the Oscars are held every year. If I were to peer out the front window, I could also see the wrought iron sign atop the Roosevelt Hotel... but those are the only vestiges of fame and glamour to be found. This is Hollywood.
Hollywood isn't a real place. I'm not trying to be profound...it literally does not exist as a city. The only Hollywood is in Florida. No, Hollywood is the term for a Los Angeles neighborhood that is located beneath a sign that used to read "Hollywoodland". Hollywood is an ideal manufactured by the publicity machine, not a place. Certainly not this place. This place boasts two types of inhabitants: wannabe's and immigrants. Both are broke, and both have ventured far from home in search of a better life.
I am one of these people, caught in an endless loop of headshots and yoga and bounced checks and booze and spray-tans and networking and organic vegetables. I twist myself around and around looking for the answer. Self-analysis. Self-love. Creative expression. It's all psychological masturbation. The only answer is to live in a different place.
The sky outside is white with smog. Not Boyfriend once joked that it wasn't pollution blanketing the sky after all, but the dust of millions of disintegrated Hollywood dreams. It's a valid theory. This is a place for the desperately optimistic.
I live in an ideal named after a housing development.
Perhaps I'll discuss this negativity next time I visit my Beverly Hills analyst. Or perhaps analysis is not the answer, maybe I need to take a Tai Chi lesson in the park. Of course it's possible that I'm simply ingesting too many pesticides. For now...I need to make a Starbucks run.
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