1. Dear Really Really Attractive People-

    When I see a really attractive person:

    (squint)
    That person looks like they could be really attractive.
    (squints harder)
    That person IS really attractive.
    Wait, why are you so attractive?
    I think I love you.
    Are you even real?
    Like, how is this possible?
    Ugh.
    Adonis walks among us.
    I feel changed from seeing you.
    Thank you.
    Fuck.
    I could be that attractive…if I tried.
    Trying’s for losers though.
    Stupid losers.
    Fuck.
    I like my weight. It’s lovable.
    I have a really nice face.
    But you have a nicer face.
    I’d like to eat an éclair off that face.
    I hope you’re not lovable.
    I bet you’re really not smart.
    I hope you lack any semblance of wit.
    I hope you have nothing to contribute in group conversations.
    Sex would probably be awful.
    You’re probably really insecure about it.
    That bone structure though.
    Where can I get an éclair right now within walking distance?
    GYM. NOW.
    I’m gonna nap first though.
    Maybe tomorrow.
    Or Monday.
    Monday would be good.

    The title of this article would imply that I do not think I’m attractive. This is not the case. I think I’m fairly attractive. I have a “nice” face. Or rather a “listening” face. People must see it and think I must be a good listener because I get earfuls on a daily basis. I indulge them, naturally. How’s your compost bin? Please tell me more about your mother’s dementia. Did you ever get that stuff figured out at the DMV?

    Adult onset residual babyfat is real. And not just in the physical sense. When I was a tubby little big kid, I remember thinking I would be hot some day. I would magically transform from duckling to swan after puberty hit. It didn’t really happen, and I find myself still in this state of fantasy, that things will magically become much more fantastic than they already are, without needing to try.

    I think I secretly get off on the idea of not giving a fuck. I’ll smoke my lungs out of commission, so that there’s no chutzpah left for stepping foot into the gym. I’ll eat whatever I want because my body is only going to decline as time progresses, so why the fuck not? I’m as resilient as I’ll ever be, right? Also, the fact that Hollywood has unrealistic standards on what is beautiful to see on screen makes me want to scream bloody murder and eat my way into diabetes as a big FUCK YOU.

    We’re told that in this phase of our 20’s, we can afford to be somewhat careless. “Carefree.” However, the older I get, the more I’ve come to discern that this time may be the most important in laying the foundation for my future. Quitting smoking will only become harder the longer I wait. And I guess the doctors are saying that incorporating physical activity into your daily life is “good” for you. Whatever.

    The older I get, the less time devote to stupid things, and for that I’m proud. And I guess the progression never ends. I want beauty in my life, in every possible way. And in order to welcome that, I need to push the unnecessary out. Identify bad habits, change the way I view them, cut them out, and try on a better quality of life for size.

    Here’s hoping it fits.

     

  2. NEWSFLASH, WORLD! ANOTHER HIPSTER STARTS A BLOG.


    It hurts to write the word ‘hipster.’ Am I a hipster? Wide-rimmed glasses. Employed at coffee shop. Resides in Echo Park. Occasional mustache. Sure looks, smells, and quacks like a Miranda July-reading duck.

    I’ve perused a lot of blogs – many good, but mostly mediocre – and I have to say, the medium has won me over. I find forms of social media to be too short. My brain “literally can’t” with Twitter. It does not compute. I think blogging will prove more conducive to the way I think, how I reflect on life, and how I’d like to share my experiences. I just have a lot of thoughts, OKAY?

    I have made it to the big 2-5 and life in Los Angeles has been nothing short of interesting. I’m not gonna lie, (I hate when people say “I’m not gonna lie.” It implies that they’re liars. Whatever.) LA has had its bitchfits with me. From awful jobs, awful dates, awful people, to the timesuck that is traffic, often paired with the wild goose chase of finding parking, this city has made it on my shitlist.

    I’ve been in the depths of postgrad despair. I’ve cried and cried and asked the great void in the universe what I should be doing at this time of my life, with no fucking response. Had my bouts of researching grad programs like crazy merely because “real life” is hard. I’ve made bad choices, then made some more. I looked to dating to distract me from my lack of determination. I looked to drinking/drugs to numb my uncertainty. I became so emotionally involved with the problems of my friends in order to feel better about myself, attempting to mask the emptiness I felt. I almost packed up and moved to Portland, so ready to say fuck it all to this godforsaken city.

    Then 2014 came around and something clicked. I realized that this was the year I’d officially officially be in my mid-twenties, and life seemed shorter than it ever had seemed in the past. News to me (and maybe you, if you’re stupid too), it only gets shorter from here on out. So I decided to DO ME. Ever since I could remember I wanted to act. I went to school for it, found such a home in the theater, and I suddenly realized my development in my craft had come to a complete halt due to my hyperactive self-doubt. I lost my hustle. It was like someone had given my insecurities 10 lines of coke each and free reign to trash my thought-life. So, due in part to the encouragement of close friends, I decided to be a fucking actor.

    Does Los Angeles need another actor? No.
    Does the internet need another blogger? Definitely not.
    Does the world need more happy, fulfilled, truly alive people? Yes.

    This city is already chock full o the walking dead. So I’m gonna live.