Land of Zero Fucks

I get out of bed and stumble to the coffee shop down the street. Good-looking twentysomethings flood the patio: aspiring singers, writers, dancers, actors and comedians.

LA - the land of zero fucks. No judgements, no safety nets. A wasteland of college dropouts, girls with daddy issues, pretty boys who coasted through high school with defined jawlines. I pray I’m able to see the carnage in ten years and see who passes through the gauntlet.

A few of my friends became household names, although “friendship” is a bit of a stretch. Famous people level up, although I still get a random text or awkward hug when I run into them at a comedy club. Others traded in their headshots for diapers. They justified moving to the Midwest because they wanted to raise “normal” kids who don’t grow up to become TikTok influencers. You don’t have to keep up with the Joneses if the Joneses don’t exist.

The others, a vast majority, continue to slog away. Middle age has set in, all lifeboats are burned. They gave up trying to find parking at Trader Joe’s and now commute from faraway lands. Places like Woodland Hills, Burbank and Sherman Oaks. Has anyone ever put West Covina on a vision board?

The host hands me my coffee, which I get to go. I put in real sugar today, two packets, and not the crappy sweetener I normally use. I deserve it.