Up front, slower. There's someone watching you, I think. Do you see? He's leaning forward. Two men mimicking dance moves by the shopping mall on Santa Monica and Fairfax. By the bus stop. They have stubble; therefore, they are attractive to me. They are attracting - like magnets. Attract, attract, attract.

I almost fell asleep in Beverly Hills - on the drive. Stalled. Silly rich people. Every time I drive down Santa Monica I think how it would be great if there wasn't just two lanes one way. But no. People like their grass, I guess. LA is a desert, man. There shouldn't be grass. There should be rocks. Cacti. Dry, hard things. Brittle. I wish there weren't even cars. The idea that I'm wishing for more lanes. Goosebumps now, on my arms. I feel it.

When I drive in Beverly Hills, I also think there should be a bike lane.

LA is a city full of pockets. Some pockets are bike-friendly. Others are not. It's only 12 miles to work. That's what my GPS says. I could bike it. And if I got hit by a car along the way, well... maybe God's trying to tell me something. Like move to Greece and live on an island.

I'm going to live on the Ionian islands. Nestled near Greece. Sort of close to where my Dad's from. It makes sense because I'm in between. Greek and Italian. So there's nowhere else I belong.

Earthquake supplies here. She put out her own hand painted sign. It was on the part of Santa Monica Boulevard where people throw their trash on the street, the part where there are fast food chains after fast food chains. Earthquake supplies. An orange arrow pointing to her door. Be saved. Prepare yourself. I can save you.

All day, the clicking of the keys. Click, click, click. The roar of the freeway, trucks barreling by. The phone blinking the date and time, but it's wrong. Stuck. Wed. Blink. July 28. Blink. 4:30 P. Blink. New Call. Callers. Dir. Extension. Like another language. I wonder if there'll ever be a time when Lincoln, Nebraska is the safest place on earth, and the oceans are attacked on all sides, and we all have to go inland, to the heartland.

Funny on my commute, how the people waiting for buses change. Earlier on, later. They become more well-dressed as you approach the west side. Brilliant. Silly. Fancy. They're fancier. That's it. Fancy-pants fancy. The girls with their shades.

I rarely look at guys. Only girls. Girls are prettier to look at. They accessorize. I hardly ever see a man where I'm like, 'Holy macaroni! You are dreamy!' And if I do, someone then says he's a celebrity, or an actor. Which instantly makes him a non-person to me. Those cats, they live in another world. Actually, no. That hardly ever happens. Sometimes I'll see someone and be like, 'Wow, you're smokin'." But then he has a kid, or a pregnant wife, and then I'm like, oh yeah, you're invisible now, too. Off limits. Another zone.

But that hardly ever happens. Really.

Mostly I look at girls. And then I think, man. How are your legs so skinny? I try to be that skinny, but I can't get rid of my bones. And my waist? My hips are bony! M says I have curves. All my past boyfriends said that too.

So, okay. Curvy. I guess that'll do.

Or I'll look at a woman's hair. Silky straight hair. And be like, how long did it take you to get ready? And make-up. That baffles me too. Wait a go, mom. You never showed me how to cake on make-up, and now I'm lost and don't know how to do it.

Then again, maybe that's a good thing? But I like pretend just as much as the next girl. And this city is all about pretend. So is life, yes? Aren't we all pretending?

Is that just me?

Anyone?