Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!

by Chelsea Handler

Los Angeles is a tricky place for vulnerable people. Hourly, you hear words like “gratitude,” “universe,” and “manifest,” and terms like “micro–panic attack” and “artisanal deodorant.” It is a place consumed with trends and fads and avocados and kale, but everything has a shelf life. There will be a point when the women and gay population of Los Angeles will turn their backs on avocados and kale—claiming they cause both cancer and erectile dysfunction—only to turn their attention toward some new colonic hydrotherapist/mystic who convinces everyone that a steady diet of fried calamari is the new anti-inflammatory food for the ages. It will quickly appear on the menu of upscale restaurants and there will be stores selling pre-packaged fresh calamari for eleven dollars a serving. It’s hard to take anything or anyone seriously after a while.

You would have to be young and stupid to believe that you are going to move to Los Angeles to become famous, which is exactly what it takes to achieve a fantasy—youth and stupidity.