Day Thirteen — another bane of my existence
Written by me — the bane of your existence
I’ll call this day thirteen. It’s been thirteen days since I drove out to Los Angeles and I truly couldn’t think of a better number for this day to be. It’s not Friday the 13th, but it’s Tuesday and everybody knows Tuesdays are much worse. I woke up to find that I bled through #MyCalvins onto the “futon” (just a crappy mattress that lays on the floor) I’ve been sleeping on, so now I have to figure out how to wash this Airbnb “futon” in the most concise and sly way possible. Then, on my way into the bathroom to get dressed this morning, I dropped #MyOldNavyShorts into the toilet. A toilet that, though it is probably close to a tie, has probably had more deuces than I have. Day thirteen has also supplied me with an underwhelming amount of job opportunities. As an NYU graduate, with honors mind you, a Cheesecake Factory won’t even hire me. A juice bar has yet to return a call. I found myself nearly applying to be an aspiring social media influencers’ photographer — a position in which “cannot afford to pay much.” I’m writing this from the futon and I’m sweating profusely. I saw a place in Orange County that does nine dollar Botox. I’ve heard that underarm Botox works but makes you sweat from other places. Worth it though? Maybe once I get a job I’ll try it out; have to read the Yelp reviews first though.
Highland Park is nice, I’ll give LA that. I settled in a good place. My roommate and I prefer to call the Airbnb we’re staying in a “hippie commune.” There are chickens that wake us up in the morning, five kittens, a human baby named Onyx (“like the stone”), and a bunch of beat up VW vans that sit on the curb the owner says he “fixes up.” There is also a tiny Chihuahua named Nug. Nug’s back legs are paralyzed and they do not put the wheels on him so he mainly just drags his sad little body around. And out of everyone and everything in LA, I seem to relate most to Nug. I am trying, Nug is trying, but I guess it’s just going to take a little longer to get there than we would like.
Day thirteen and I ate two ninety nine cent burritos at Del Taco. Day thirteen and I’m counting down the probability of personally Thirteen Reasons Why-ing myself. That’s not a nice joke. I understand. And that’s why I’m saying…who’s to say it’s a joke?
It’s a joke. It just goes with the theme of thirteen. 13 Going On 30 perhaps? If I can fast forward to thirty that would be swell. If I can fast forward to retirement, I’d like that even more.
But in all sincerity, why is it harder to get a job at a restaurant in LA than to get into a university with a 30% acceptance rate? Tomorrow is day fourteen. Which means it’ll have been two weeks since I arrived here and everyday has been a vacation. Mainly because I am unemployed.