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
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