Famous Everywhere But Now.

There is just something unrelentingly soul destroying about coming to work on the weekend. Especially in a place like Los Angeles where everything, and I mean every-fucking-thing, moves at a different momentum on Saturday and Sunday. Not just the Metro or the Lyft drivers although today would have been a good day to opt for Lyft and the $3,000 in credits I have with them, but knowledge aforethought or something like that. 

At this point Metro only exists as an instrument of utter torment and a looking glass into the despairing depths of the human condition, but why avoid it just because it's dark?

The barista was shit. The train was late, the crazy was just a little too many shades of normal, but I made it to work nonetheless. My French lessons are getting more and more difficult, or tres et tres dificil, but who gives.

Twenty four hours ago or so I was still in Idaho. I go to Idaho, and I got to Ross. I found a nice pair or Reeboks there a few years back and like a squirrel remembering a long hidden nut I return for the hunt. This time an overgrown buffalo of a woman, reeking of cigarettes and socially engineered poverty asked me some questions:

‘Are you looking for shoes?’

‘Obviously,’ came my dry reply a little too reflexively if I must say as I stare at the wall of size 10s.

‘I hope you find something you like.’ At this point I began to realize the smelly buffalo was some sort of employee.

‘Oh well,’ I add ‘Sometimes you find treasure and sometimes you don’t’

‘Hey, Are you bisexual?’

………….

No I did not make this up, yes it actually happened, and every time I think Idaho has just gone and done a number on me it goes and does something else.

‘I don’t mean to be rude.’

‘That is funny because you are succeeding rather admirably.’

‘No I really hope you find a nice pair of shoes.’

I have to run. I have to hide. I have to find the next plane to Los Angeles. There. Here. Christ.