Make sure to wear some flowers in your hair...

At any given time, somebody's internet tabs could probably tell their whole story--at least at that moment.  Right now, my tabs are Continental, a Google search for Haight Ashbury, another for "best vegan in san francisco" and the official Bart website (which is SF's version of the subway).  Though I never felt a pull towards the place,  I loved the movie Milk and went straight for the Castro.  I felt like I was in some 80s version of a grittier, gayer East Village.  It didn't help that I'd been in the EV just a week earlier, revisiting friends, stomping grounds, and memories.

They say LA is shallow.  I always stood up for it, until I realized that perfect weather, my newly acquired unsustainable Whole Foods habit, and flat brim hats on white boys are not typically found to exist in nature.  It's not really life to live in LA--at least after you've lived in New York.  The city (and you better know which city I mean by now when I say "the city") provides true characters, endless opportunities and hard winters that make us grapple with why we love it unconditionally.

But LA is just an empty canvas.  And I may have gotten that from a movie--but it's true.  It's an empty canvas that we all just throw our shit onto.  We smear it with hopes and rinse it off with endless nights out, the smug knowledge of the fact that we live in tropical weather (that we never enjoy--we being the 10% of people who actually work in LA), and mingle with the other 90% who either already made their money, or who think backup plans are for losers despite being an extra at 38.

Trailing through the Castro, I felt romantic.  Old Victorian looking apartments looked rundown but were wedged against quaint, welcoming cafes, with handsome young men selling vegan cookies to long-haired little boys, in awe of how you could make a pastry without eggs.

Basically, the nail is in the coffin.  I'm too selfish for LA.  I need my city to give me something.