Straight Outta Compton. AKA the antithesis of my life.
First week of full-time employment OVER. ROMEO DONE. And it’s all going pretty swimmingly if I do say so myself. Although it is a lot of information to take in at once. Sometimes when it gets late into the day, I start to go into an information coma. Every so often I just switch off and start doodling cartoon sharks or colouring in all the Ps and Bs on my information pack, and when I zone back into the conversation I don’t know what’s going on and I’m unsure how much time has actually elapsed.
This job is exciting because it means I’ll have enough to go travelling in September with the tripod. (The tripod is the name my two friends and I thought we’d come up with for ourselves when we were really drunk one night, but it turns out we’d just stolen it from The Girl Next Door. Soz, Emile Hirsch.) In my excitement I’ve been looking for places to live for a couple of months in Los Angeles.
LA scares me big time. I’ve watched Skid Row. I’ve played Grand Theft Auto. I’ve read Chicken. I just know if I’m not careful I’ll end up some junkie, selling my ovaries for crack and a bargain bucket, or worse: I’ll end up being a celebrity impersonator. Who am I going to impersonate?! People are going to be like “Let me guess… Gabourey Sidibe?” NO. I refuse. I won’t be that person. I am going to try and save extra money so I can stay somewhere expensive and safe like Beverly Hills or Calabasas, because I wouldn’t last two minutes anywhere else. I’d be the twat skipping through Compton with my bag open, asking for directions because “I’m a tourist and have a lot of money on me,” going up to gangsters playing poker on their porch and saying “Oooh can I play? I just LOVE monopoly! I’ll be the top hat!” It’ll be as bad as the time the whole Day clan got lost in Detroit in 2002. We haven’t spoken about it since.
Plus, we all know Los Angeles is where all the Ted Bundys and Jeffrey Dahmers of the world go to live out their dreams. I can’t be in the centre of that; I’m a portly woman, and that’s like catnip for murderers. They’re going to look at me like I’m one big skin suit they’re just DYING to wear around the house on Sundays. So yeah, thanks for ruining my dreams, psychos. I refuse to become a fancy lampshade in your sitting room or a bowl that holds your imperial mints.
The only thing I’ve hated about going to work this week is how immensely cold it’s been. When I woke up early Friday morning I hoped that what I was seeing outside my window was in fact ash from a previously undiscovered volcano that erupted nearby, and not more snow. I thought we were done with this weather, guys. It’s so cold I’ve had to start wearing these weird gloves I found at my mums house that make me feel like a Victorian aristocrat. They’re so padded, and it makes picking my keys up off the table in the mornings extremely difficult. Also, are balaclavas socially acceptable again yet? Because I have one, and if it is still classed as inappropriate (although I don’t know what’s inappropriate about having a warm face when I go to the bank) then I would still like to put it to some use. I’ve come up with a new range of nightwear: pyclavas. It’s a onsie and a balaclava put together – very difficult to get into but cosy as fuck.