Nooninooninoo...
I think L.A. has ruined hot women for me. Hot women used to be such a rare and wonderful thing, like rainbows or getting two aces on the first hand of poker. But L.A. is where hot women, mostly those who have nothing else going for them right now except being hot, go to be hot. Nowhere else in the world is being hot so prevalent and romanticized. Therefore nowhere else in the world is being hot so pedestrian. It isn't bad because being hot is never bad. But it isn't exactly good because although it is not commonplace it is expected. That gap between what is and what people expect is what makes hotness so dreary.
And this is what L.A. has done to me, L.A.'s crime: by living out a twisted ideal in the everyday, it turns the amazing into something empty. I shouldn't have to think about hotness. If there's one thing everyone should enjoy without introspection, it should be seeing something or someone hot. But L.A., by running hotness into the ground has forced me to ask the question, "Why don't hot women do it for me anymore?" And they don't. These days I have a strange reaction to hot women that straddles the line between caution and sadness, and I have to think critically to find out why I feel this way.
Is it because experience tells me that the vacant look in her eyes means she really isn't thinking about anything important right now? Is it because I know the reason she's thin is because she does coke lines on her car keys in the bathroom? Is it because she maxed out a bunch of credit cards buying her clothes but she's still going to complain about money troubles at least four times tonight? Is it because she calls herself bi to be more exciting? Is it because reading really isn't her "thing"? Is it because she is so hot, so hot that her image may haunt my dreams, but against all adolescent logic, the operating system that I have been running on for so long, I don't like her and I will not be asking to see her again?
It's just all so depressing.
And this is what L.A. has done to me, L.A.'s crime: by living out a twisted ideal in the everyday, it turns the amazing into something empty. I shouldn't have to think about hotness. If there's one thing everyone should enjoy without introspection, it should be seeing something or someone hot. But L.A., by running hotness into the ground has forced me to ask the question, "Why don't hot women do it for me anymore?" And they don't. These days I have a strange reaction to hot women that straddles the line between caution and sadness, and I have to think critically to find out why I feel this way.
Is it because experience tells me that the vacant look in her eyes means she really isn't thinking about anything important right now? Is it because I know the reason she's thin is because she does coke lines on her car keys in the bathroom? Is it because she maxed out a bunch of credit cards buying her clothes but she's still going to complain about money troubles at least four times tonight? Is it because she calls herself bi to be more exciting? Is it because reading really isn't her "thing"? Is it because she is so hot, so hot that her image may haunt my dreams, but against all adolescent logic, the operating system that I have been running on for so long, I don't like her and I will not be asking to see her again?
It's just all so depressing.