I have a bunch of completed and near-completed stories on my harddrive. Where by a “bunch” I really mean like ten. I’ve written stories on and off my whole life, but i have no idea where they are. I don’t know if that’s because I find them disposable, or I just don’t do a good job of keeping track of them…either way, I was looking for something and ran across this small snippet that I have no recollection of writing whatsoever. I must have done so within the last 5 years or so, but I can’t recall under what circumstances.
You’ll also notice that it’s really more of a blog post than a story, observations being the kinds of things I usually post.
I’m not sure why I just said that. At any rate:
There are too many people in Los Angeles.
There are two ways you walk by a stranger in Los Angeles.
1. With your head down
2. With your eyes straight ahead and a don’t-fuck-with-me look on your face.
What does that tell you about Los Angeles? It tells you that there’s such a surplus of people here that you can afford to either ignore them or beat them. Consider time past, let’s go with Colonial when we were still exploring this vast land of purple mountains, majesty. Imagine yourself in your deer-skin cap and tattered boots. The last of your hardtack begrudgingly digesting in your stomach. Murky water stored in an animal hide your only relief from the hot sun. When, in the distance, you see a small wagon train shimmering on the horizon. You bet your ass you’re going to roll up and say “hi”.