Status Updates From Días lentos, malas compañías

I did not become famous but I got near enough to smell the stench of success. It smelt like burnt cloth and rancid gardenias, and I realized that the truly awful thing about success is that it's held up all those years as the thing that would make everything all right. And the only thing that makes things even slightly bearable is a friend who knows what you're talking about.

There’s no precedent for women getting their own "everything" and learning that it's not the answer. Especially when you got fame, money, and love by belting out how sad and lonely and beaten you were. Which is only a darker version of the Hollywood "everything" in which the more vulnerability and ineptness you project onto the screen, the more fame, money, and love they load you with.

And we have to stick together or else heroine-ism will find us home alone with no women to go out drinking with, and in America this can lead to stronger spirits, wilder music, and an early grave.

"Do you think these shoes are too purple?" I asked.

"Too purple?" he said, looking down at my feet. "If they'le not on purple, they're not purple enough."

And there, on that cold marble floor in that tricky company, I fell hopelessly in love without a backward glance and wondered what a nice girl like me was doing in a place like that.

I drank tequila in San Francisco to warm me up and in L.A. because it was appropriate.

My claustrophobia from San Francisco begins to vanish—that cheerful shipshape vitality of the north violates my spirit and I long for vast sprawls, smog, and luke nights: L.A. It is where I work best, where I can live, oblivious to physical reality.