Because I am a Square, Old Fuck that Lives on the West Side (of Los Angeles)

It’s easy to get things mixed up. We are, however you paint it, a deciduous rabble of debutantes and derelicts in leather pants. We see parking spaces as barometers of whether businesses will actually have any business existing. We prune our echo chambers of signature interference, deny you the merge of conversation, the comeuppance of a dialogue; we rebuke your lane-change-chit-chat. If you’re on a bicycle in the bicycle lane, we’re aiming for your hind quarters. If you’re on an electric scooter we get to clip you between the hip and knee. If you’re a swarthy kid we reserve the right to never have seen you at all. We barrel down neighborhoods in all of our sedan-class tout suiteness. We Armor-All our sunglasses until they display pixelated avatar drivel. We tantalize our mufflers with ragamuffin megaphone elite gravity. We park like czars so as not to share the municipal parking loam. We block driveways, boulder causeways, break collarbone loading zones. We drive two blocks for milk, but not before lauding each other on the brand of dolphin-safe tuna, ignoring the dinosaur in the room. We pretend people bagging our food were born to bag our food. It’s easy to see sacrifice from the dashboard of my thrive. It’s easy to see how things get done when you’re a pilot ace. It’s easy to bury your feelings in a Frosty or thicker, chocolate shake food. It’s easy to believe the we we assume when you are are you. We assume no responsibility for your nuance, doodad, or eunich. We believe belief is the truest route to Wilshire. We believe bike lanes are fake news. We believe eons ago our ego took a really loud picture. We agree to send you via the route that takes you by the dying airport even though it will be sold slab by slab to scions of loft spaces and self-parking mavens.