Hell-A Part I: The Suicide Diaries

It's impossible to be miserable in LA.

Let me be clear.

You can still hate yourself.

It's just not the type of place you'd want to kill yourself.

Your self-loathing certainly won't be accepted.

In fact, between the smashed avocado toast surfing bros, and the soy-almond-non-fat-lukewarm-piss coffee, I'm not sure if anyone would even notice you're gone.

So don't kill yourself in LA.

At least save yourself for a civil place, like New York. Or Chicago.

Some place functioning in a low-level depression.

You know, you'll probably think twice about killing yourself in a city like that.

Maybe that's because living in an accepted functional state of misery, with equally as miserable neighbours, just feels right.

There's commodore in that.

There's organization in the chaos.

There's reason to live.

You can't let down your anxiety-riddled brothers and sisters now, can you?

We're all in this together.

But LA. I'm telling you. The people are different here.

No matter how many people are around, you're always alone.

Too much sun, I guess.

You can be in a city full of people, but you're always alone.

No one gives enough of a shit to tell you the truth either.

I guess that's why folks come here though. To be someone, something, they're not. To start over. Trying to escape something. Or trying to find something. For reinvention. Who knows.

I mean, in the city of angels, everyone's just acting.

We're all actors.

We're all just playing our part.

Nothing's real. And nobody wants it to be either.