The Observer - a photo journal

Window on Wilshire & Westwood | 2009-08-17 |

More words from what I'm trying to make an absolute masterpiece.

L.A. is a city of absurdity, where fat women wear belly shirts, and �ber thin woman don't eat because they think they�re fat. The actual name of this little pueblo is Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels. Which makes us the city of absurd/fallen angels, all of us struggling to traverse the 405 and the 101 without getting shot as we cut someone off, and struggling to find that illusive soul mate, ourselves, and happiness. In a city as large as this one would think that it's easy to find someone, everywhere we go there are throngs of people. But the ironic shit about it is that everyone I know is single and looking. The rest are in something they define as a relationship, hoping against hope to "make it work." The single ones hope to run into someone absolutely wonderful. But we never do, even though they�re right in front of us the whole time. Perhaps there�s no such thing as a soul mate. It would seem that the best we can have is a person that we share our lives with, go catch dinner and a movie with, sleep with, and not totally dislike. Though that last one is not a prerequisite for a relationship. In short, we're searching for someone to "hang out" with. Nothing more should be expected, because anything more is asking for too much apparently.

Vista Drive

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