I Hate You With the Heat of 1000 Suns

Angelenos suffer from chronic dissatisfaction. Taking a cue from Woody Allen's Maria Elena, it's a phrase that struck a chord. Not just American, but Angeleno.

You are, in fact, an Angeleno. It doesn't matter if your election ballot, your ID, and your license plate are all out-of-state. If you know not to take the 101 to the 405 freeway, you've had multiple convos about how people from this town are "so flaky," or you've joined the Crackberrying set, you're an Angeleno. Don't kid yourself.

Yes, I'm feeling a bit sick of all the clichés. Maybe this feeling is all in the timing - the realization that another year has yet again floated on by. That, coupled with holiday stress, the auditing of those two worlds: one, in which you're a fiercely independent, rising star, making your way through the crowd. In another, you're the kid that everyone's waiting to have return 'home' to their family and stop that Hollywood career nonsense and hurry up and get married and settle down already. The one that everyone's waiting for to move back East to go to grad school. God knows your parents won't stop telling you anytime soon.

If you're not griping about how expensive it is to live on your own, you're ragging on how your roommates are the devil's spawn in the history of apartment living. Sure, people are shallow and traffic is merciless, but it's the city of celebrities, of all those fancy shmancy Hollywood spots that we've all come to avoid after being highlighted on The Hills.

As I blog this particular entry, I am slammed back into the all-too-familiar set of college roommate factions which engage upon the events preceding war.

What the fuck. I'm getting too old for this.

COTW
Spotted: Cute French guy that runs a cafe on Magnolia. As I perused the pastries he mentioned that he "makes everything fresh." A man with a silky accent. Whom also bakes. I'm sold.