Intro

“If you’re lacking inspiration as an artist, your father and I are probably to blame. You just had too good of a childhood. We were too perfect as parents.” -Marti

An online journal is cheaper than therapy, I say when people ask why I write. Blogging doesn’t make me unique; everyone does it nowadays. Thanks to technology, any old schmuck with Internet access can post about sports or music or the sweaters they knit for their cat, Chairman Meow. The evil part of me – which makes up a good 97% – lives for it. Now you don’t have to wonder which of your peers has a double-digit IQ anymore!

And yet… here I am, contributing to the narcissism. Because I love to write. Because I love channeling my creativity. Still, it feels terribly self-centered to yammer on about my own life – what makes me so special and important that I should assume people would care?

But then I read some of Kanye’s tweets and realized my ego’s totally manageable.

And mostly, my dad, Tim, made a good point- by mailing me White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Quick history lesson: this book was auctioned off by countless publishing companies and supposedly received a £250,000 advance… based off of 2 chapters alone. Homegirl was twenty-two at the time. That’s right, while we’re out there being aimless, hedonistic postgrads crashing on our parents’ futon and stealing our ex’s Hulu password, Zadie Smith was cashing in 6-digit checks.

In many ways, Smith’s work had the undertones of a memoir, centered around the English neighborhood she grew up and featuring themes that mirrored her own life. She was a girl writing about what she knew – but she fused this with a razor-sharp wit and insight into the diverse, fast-paced world of London. It became an instant best seller.

So, Tim reasoned, why not you? As a born-and-raised Californian, Los Angeles isn’t some faraway fantasy land for me. Celebrity house tours, plastic surgery, the supernatural powers of kale… all of these bizarre quirks and trends feel like the norm. It never occurred to me that LA is probably the only city in the world where you can attend dog yoga classes – taught by instructors who claim they can communicate with animals telepathically. And that sort of Eliza Thornberry shit happens ALL THE TIME.

I examined my blog views from January 2016 and, for reasons that escape me, the whole map lights up.

Now, I couldn’t tell you who the hell in Venezuela or Israel is reading about my glamorous 48-hour modeling career or that time I unknowingly flirted with a French teenager (vom), but apparently it’s a thing. And we’re living in a world that’s straight-up mystified by LA, so why not blog about it?

So, it’s official: I’ll be providing you with the best low-cal, soy, GMO-free taste I can of what exactly life is like here. The more basic, the better. You’ll travel alongside me as I struggle/quite potentially die at a Soul Cycle class, find out what in Beyoncé’s name a dog spa is, get bag shamed at Whole Foods, attempt a juice cleanse (this will be a very short entry), and, if I’m feeling crazy enough, buy a fedora. Hopefully, the content will become more family-friendly as I emphasize less on blacking out…

Just kidding, it totally won’t be. Enjoy new entries every Wednesday!

Note: Some names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. If you’re featured in these entries (or would like to be featured because you’re an attention whore like that; I don’t judge) and wish to go by a pseudonym, let me know. This blog will inevitably become world-renowned and it would be a real buzzkill if I were the reason you got fired.

Note 2: Do yourself a favor and don’t take anything I say on here seriously.