Los Angeles, I'm yours

I guess now is as good a time as any to tell the world that tomorrow morning I'm packing up my striped shirts and my stolen airplane blanket I use as a towel and my lamp that looks like an aquarium and when you flip a little switch the fish swim around, and I'm moving to a new warm sunny city.

Why not shock my system by going from a lazy year in Provence straight to a high-stress advertising agency? Because it's insane at best. But I'm doing it anyway.



When I was 12 I studied piano with a pretty eccentric concert pianist, who after six months of lessons told me to inform my mother that she wouldn't be able to teach me anymore because she was moving to Disneyland that weekend. (There was a language barrier.) On the drive home, as I stretched my sore fingers, I wondered out loud "Why would anyone move to California? Isn't it supposed to fall into the ocean by next year?"

These are the sorts of things cold little girls in Minnesota tell themselves to make it through the day. And these are the sorts of things I want to be telling myself for the rest of my life. But the world's coolest advertising program is in California, and these are sacrifices I have to make.