I was raised in the Midwest, where being helpful is akin to cleanliness, which is next to godliness.
After binge watching a season and a half of The Walking Dead, I feel deeply my midwestern, civic, responsibility to always leave the house with a full tank of gas and non-perishable food supplies. You know, on the off-chance that a survivor of the apocalypse needs my car and/or is close to starvation.
I was raised in the Midwest, I’ve never lived anywhere but the Midwest but I moved to Los Angeles a few weeks ago. I’m now living the half-life of the voluntarily displaced, which is one reason I’m binge-watching The Walking Dead. I like it here in Los Angeles. Despite my deep-seated belief that I’m not good-looking enough to live in the city of angels (false on a few different levels) I continue to be charmed by the city. I feel comfortable in my skin here. Not only will your neighbors let you borrow their internet while you wait for Time Warner to develop decent customer service skills, but there are mountains, hiking, sunshine, socially mandated optimism, and a general willingness to speak with me in line at grocery stores (which often smell strongly of fresh fish).
There are downsides to every city, I know, but I’m not interested in hearing about the pitfalls of being an Angelian just yet.
My cat, though, could tell you some stories. A few weeks ago, he was starved, drugged and awoke to find himself in a different climate. Worst of all: Liam Neeson wasn’t there to save him (I’ve never seen Taken, but I do have lusty feelings about Liam Neeson. And Mike Rowe.)
All of this, to tell you that I’ve moved to Los Angeles. With my cat. It’s been awhile since my last post, 2014 has definitely been the year of the badass motherf*cker. A few adjectives I would add to “badass” are, impulsive, intuitive, sometimes inebriated, slightly fatter, a little wiser, and less assuming.
Let’s talk more frequently, yes?