A Love Letter to Los Angeles
I’m still in love with you and always will be
Happy birthday, Los Angeles. You turned 241 on September 4, 2022, but no one said anything. The city government wrote something for your last birthday when you turned 240, but this year it seems they just gave up. Your own government ghosted you. This makes me sad, and frankly a little mad, because I love you.
I’m sorry that no one thanked you for this strange otherworldly world you’ve given us: the shocks of hot pink bougainvillea; the buzz of hummingbirds; the strange winding steep streets where it’s terrifying to park your car; the monstrously large agave plants that tower over us; the trails above the city where you can run into coyotes (that somehow remind of me B-list f*ck bois) and rattlesnakes and the plant that you can make ricin from, if you paid attention in chemistry class or even to Breaking Bad.
No one toasted you to thank you for being able to drive up the coast and get drunk on beer and fresh fish, and then sober up by the tide pools. No thanked you for the gift of being able to fly down the freeway to your cousin’s house in Chatsworth and float in their pool during the 103 degree heat while they smoke pot and giggle. No one thanked you for being able to have horse here, (right in the city!) stabled in strange random neighborhoods. No one mentioned that…
