PEOPLE IN LOS ANGELES SUCK

LA is filled with narcissistic, self-obsessed broken shells of half-people. The sort of people who wear sports blazers even if it's 90 degrees out. The sort of people who discuss the remotest hypothetical taste of success as success. The sort of people who have the encyclopedic knowledge of which production company is looking for what type of script, but have not even a remote understanding of the health care debate.

"Tort reform? Is that the new cop procedural on ABC?"

This is why I have almost no friends here. I'd like to pretend that I do; and yes, I do end up "hanging out" with people...but I'd say 9 out of 10 of them interest me slightly less than having my balls shaved clumsily by a rusty exacto knife. Seriously. (but not you)

What's worse is that I can feel my brain turning into a mushy porridgy type substance. Before I left for LA, I was able to have a basic conversation about a wide array of subjects; history, science, politics, hardcore pornography...but now? I'm about as verbose as an anxiety-ridden deaf-mute who speaks Taushiro, the rarest language in the world.

So what to do? Hire friends? Pay for intellectual discourse? Find an intelligence whore? I mean, it's gotten to the point that I read the comments for articles on nytimes.com while fondling myself and running a knife across my wrists. This isn't a life. This isn't a half-life. It's gotten to the point where I have to look up what a "half-life" means! I mean, I used to know, but the fact that Steve Levitan is the show runner on Modern Family has knocked that little tidbit out of my brain.

There is no solution. I fear that I must stay in Los Angeles in order to get to be successful enough so that I don't have to live in Los Angeles. It's the macabre realization that your life will be nothing but empty pleasantries about weather and your commute that pours the salt in the wound. Pours sulfuric acid into the wound. Rips the wound open and holds sex orgies in the wound. Rapes the wound and then claims it was "consensual". "Yo, wassup buddy! Can you believe the 101! Fucking bumper to bumper. Did I tell you that Paramount expressed interest in a treatment I wrote? I'm so fucking successful".

This is the end, my only friend.

The end.