welcome to the animal house (I'm now a college freshman)

Living in Los Angeles is unlike living in any other place, though I've only ever known New York. Los Angeles is seedy: you can see the desolation in photoshoots, but you figure it to be deliberate for the sake of the photograph; no, when you take to the streets you see in the pictures you realize that most of Los Angeles looks like this. (Where were the sun-dappled streets promised you by Paris Hilton's paparazzi photographs? They're about two blocks long, and they're only in Beverly Hills.) Los Angeles is lonely;--then again, it would be folly to expect otherwise from a city intended for cars sooner than for people.

Los Angeles is all right; it's just different. It's cool how fucking intrepid you feel for taking the subway, especially when to do so back home was a matter of survival: you took public transport or you never left your neighborhood.

In any event, I'm back, for better or for worse. I'm not interested in writing as quaintly as possible (ever-so-delicate paragraphs about coffee with milk, about lilac flowers, about the prettiest dress so-and-so just bought off of Etsy)--just about documenting my thoughts, my life, my work as I see fit.

I was about to detail my intentions of buying a Moleskine tomorrow, of actually filling it with observations for once. I then remembered the four LEFTY notebooks I recently bought for my classes: almost as soon as I walked into Genesis Of The Screenplay I began using the green pad not for notes but for sketching out side projects, so I might as well commit myself fully to its reappropriation, yeah? I was never a diarist. But I'm a writer, and every scrap of human interaction I file away can be used later: Facebook foibles, moments of sacrilege, of comic discrepancy in real time. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am a writer; it's high time I started behaving like it.