Santa Monica. Home of the Homeless. And Freaks. And obnoxious mexican gangbangers, apparently, out for a shopping spree with the hootchie mommas. And crazy people who at first glance appear completely normal -- like college professors even -- before asking you for money. The last time some kid asked me for some spare change I said "I could ask you the same question!" and, I shit you not, he reaches into his pocket and offers up 27 cents. So much for being a smart-ass.
Despite my erroneous assumption that I would finally be able to relax around strangers or out in public by myself (don't ask... I got weird about being stared at for a while -- it got to the point where it was either me becoming a full-on agoraphobe or just walking around with a red-hot poker to stick in their eyeballs. Much to my current angst I chose the former since, well, DUH! LA is just bursting at it's urban sprawled seams with beautiful, perfect, lithe, young, perky blondes a billion times -- no, a quadruple-trillion times [I bet no matter how many zeros that makes, it still doesn't come close to the number of zeros needed to describe our national deficit] more beautiful than anyone would consider me, I still have days where I let it get to me (it's worse here - cuz everyone is staring at everyone else in order to see if they're famous).
Can you all just STOP FUCKING staring please? I'm NOT A FUCKING CELEBRITY. I don't want to talk about the weather, whether or not I've found a wi-fi signal @ Starbucks (duh! If you can't read the 8 million "T-Mobile Wi-Fi Available Here" stickers placed everywhere but up your ass, you've got no hope of navigating the web) or the price of gas in Los Angeles. Just let me go about my business and I won't have to use my red-hot poker.
If your mother never taught you about etiquette (Its IMPOLITE TO STARE), then learn how to be subtle about it so I don't have to seethe with anger as I walk by you. Can't you feel the homicidal "FUCK OFF" I'm mentally sending you in return?