It’s a bit fuzzy, really.
I’m not an aspiring actress, a hopeful producer, or a wannabe screenwriter. I don’t care that celebs shop in the same Trader Joe’s aisle as me, or that they drive on the same roads I do in their daily commute.
I don’t really enjoy gussying up. I trip in heels. I don’t enjoy skeevy L.A. guys with V-neck t-shirts who try to exercise their “game” at random dive bars. And I don’t find Chelsea Handler amusing in the slightest bit.
I don’t know the newest [insert cutting-edge director here] film and can’t put the face to the name of that actress from that new show that’s gotten rave reviews from Deadline.com, Hollywood Reporter, and whatever other trade mag I don’t care to read.
I fall asleep during movies from time to time. And fake, candy-coated people make me literally vomit. All over. Just all over the place. One time, a few months ago, I remember someone introducing me to one of their “friends” and two seconds later, when the person turned around, the introducee said, “Ugh, I can’t stand [insert friend’s name here]. Really.” I vomited all over. (Okay, not really, but a part of me wanted to slug the person in the face then and there, followed by a subsequent up-chucking.) Why would you introduce me to people you despise? Why are you wasting my life?
But don’t get me wrong, I love California. The mixture of sunshine and cooled air feels perfect to the touch, most of the time. I enjoy the freshness that comes with each day at my job and the new people I get to interact with every so often. (I breathe in and appreciate this freshness, because God knows L.A.’s smog level is probably obliterating my lungs with every inhale.)
. . . It’s just weird living in this germ that’s separated from the seed. But I prefer the sidelines to the circus around me. Seriously.