LA, 2024

You say you want to live in LA, but you don’t know what it means to really live there.

You find yourself standing outside of Barney’s Beanery in an outfit that makes you look four years older than you actually are. Your lips are puckered, your stomach is sucked in, and your high heels pinch your toes uncomfortably. 

You don’t go to bars often, but you’re always on the prowl for a good time. 

The bouncer looks at your ID and allows you inside. You take in the scenery, a mix of old and young faces. Your friend grabs your hand, leading you over to the bar. You stumble over your words as you order a vodka cranberry. Once you finish ordering, you smile at the bartender. She gives you a smug grin as she asks to see your ID again. 

Your hand shakes as you give it to her. You feel as though she can see straight through all of your lies. Like she knows who you really are. Like she knows you more than your friends know you. 

She gives your ID back to you and hands you your drink. 

You spend the whole night sitting at a booth with your friends, wondering if what you’re doing is cool. The more you think about it, the more you realize how sad and desperate you are. 

You’re seventeen, at a bar, and flirting with twenty-five-year-olds. 

You say you want to live in LA, but you don’t know what it means to really live there. 

You spend the day dieting before a high school party. You get ready with your friends at their big houses in the Palisades or Hancock Park. You always wear a push-up bra, even though you don’t need one, and a shirt that barely covers your stomach. 

You drink too much at parties because you want to forget how lonely you are. You lazily dance along to a Dom Dolla or Fred Again song. Your hips sway from side to side as girls around you smoke cigarettes. 

They offer one and you take it. You smoke it just because you think it makes you look cool. Deep down, though, you know it doesn’t. 

You can see the Hollywood sign in the distance. You lean over the wooden fence before you to get a better look. You reach out to the sign, fingers expanding out into the horizon. 

You suddenly wish that you were sober. 

You say you want to live in LA, but you don’t know what it means to really live there. 

You dance in the waves with your friends, enjoying the beautiful sun that beats down on you. You feel uncomfortable in your bikini. You’re ashamed of yourself. You know that you don’t look like the other girls. The ones who post on Instagram and get 500 likes. You poke at your own stomach underwater. 

You lay out on your towel underneath the sun. You feel like a piece of bacon on a frying pan. The desire for tan skin during the summer makes your stomach growl. One day you’ll post a picture of yourself in a bikini. 

The sun starts to set in the distance. You lay down on the cool sand, allowing it to get into your hair. Your friends play tag on the beach, chasing each other like animals. You wish that you could get up and join them, but you're bloated from your lunch.

So, you hide your body from them. 

You say you want to live in LA, but you don’t know what it means to really live there. 

You lay on the warm grass at the Reservoir, staring up at the sun. People around you are having comfortable conversations on the grass. Your eyes trail over to your friends who are sitting next to you. They’re sharing cigarettes and snickering to themselves. 

They offer you one. This time, you deny, feeling suddenly uncool. 

You look back up to the sun that beats down on you. You're hungry since your spring rolls from Sticky Rice didn’t fill you up. You rub your eyes with your hands before sitting up. You grab your camera and start taking pictures of your friends. 

They don’t acknowledge you– they’re lost in conversation. 

You say you want to live in LA, but you don’t know what it means to really live there. 

You’re back at another party in Studio City with people you barely know. The twisty-turny roads that your Uber driver took you down made you dizzy and sick to your stomach. Now you’re in a daze.

You’re getting with the girl next to you even though you’re not attracted to her. She wraps her arms around your waist. You can feel her heart beating against your back. You swallow thickly, wishing that you could just be honest with yourself– and her. 

You cave and smoke a joint with the social outcasts. You watch as people dance on the patio. They squeal with delight and slap each other playfully—their drinks spill as they jump up and down to the beat. You look at boots, realizing you’re forcing yourself to be left out. You hand the joint back to the outcasts. 

You grab a drink before entering the crowd. You feel yourself start to dance with the people around you. They hype you up, smiling and clapping. You smile widely, giggling with them under the moonlight. 

You don’t need to separate yourself from everyone else. 

You just need to get out of your head.