your life; west los angeles

You violently shudder half-awake in the morning, to the sound of your Sonic Bomb Alarm Clock that includes a bed shaker. Exhaustive late-Nights and RedBull-fueled all-nighters, combined with falling asleep to the sound of obnoxious party-goers and distraught road-ragers have caused the need for serious ear-piercing machinery to try to wake you up. The neighbors claim that they now wake up at the same time as you due to the deafening high-pitched alarm that goes on for 30 minutes every morning at 7:30. Your ears are made of steel; nothing can wake you, your excuse is.

After a significant amount of time, you finally fully wake up in your shitty one-bedroom 1.5k dollar a month apartment which is in dire need of renovation, upgrades and a thorough cleaning. You’ll clean it one day.

“Perhaps when I move?” You hope.

Later, you pack all of your things into a bag and head out of the shithole of the apartment you live in. You know that Uber is expensive, but your bike is not worth your all-so-precious-time. After all, it’s a terrible ROI, right? A random person comes and casually picks you up from the sidewalk. You are on your way to Primo Passo, Santa Monica’s best coffee shop. Arriving there, you push the two glass doors forward to walk into the comfortable vibe of millennial hipsters, soccer mom’s and few elders here and there. The place smells of sweet coffee and affords you the only 30 minutes every day you allow yourself to relax.

You walk to the counter, which is situated in the center of the room in a European style island where two men with man buns and overalls great you. Coffee bags line the wall, all labeled with different origins and roasts.

You order your regular: Nature-processed Papua New Guinea Single Origin, Drip Coffee Au Lait. For the measly sum of 12$…

You tell yourself that the coffee will make you more productive and awake, allowing you to justify the cost in extra “efficiency.” You also tell yourself that one day, you will be like those hipster minimalists on Instagram who make their own drip-coffee to save on cost and add to your hip factor. Maybe then you will become Instagram famous? Perhaps not.

You decide to save on an Uber and walk to work, a 30-minute walk. I should have taken the bike you think to yourself. On your walk, you pass Santa Monica’s Ocean Avenue, overlooking the ocean on a nice and tall bluff, cliffs going straight down to the beach. One day, you will be able to afford an apartment right here on the top floor, overlooking the ocean, you assure yourself.

The city is dead.

Bums roam the streets like Zombies, screaming to themselves in the alleyways. It’s 9 in the morning and not a single non-bum soul is out. You miss the time you lived in Europe and New York; 6 o’clock was rush hour there. Maybe I’ll move there once I become big or something, you say to yourself sarcastically.

Finally reaching the intersection of Ocean and Arizona, you turn left and continue east on Arizona. Shops and Resturants are still closed, trucks are parked on the curb. Mornings in Santa Monica are eerier than 2 o’clock strolls at night, at least then you will be able to spot a few drunk teenagers and club goers.

Finally, you arrive at WeWork, the overpriced office space that you rent out so that others don’t think you are unemployed. You tell everyone that everything is going well while every single audition you applied for rejected you and your affiliate marketing income source is in dire need of an update. Otherwise, you will start losing money.

You decide that blogging is the best way to go in 2018 and you spend 96$ to open a blog about some topic that somehow will come magically to you.

You spend the whole day researching how to implement SEO into your site without having to pay for the business plan on WordPress. Fuck it, you say and go back to your Adwords campaign, at least you are making money there. Realizing that you wasted hours on your blog, you spend the night in the office updating and testing your new campaign plan. Adderall and Caffeine become your best friend during those lonely and stress-filled hours.

It’s a Friday night, but you do not feel like going to a club with the same fake and disingenuous friends, only to be fake and disingenuous to avoid facing judgment or criticism. The worst case scenario is that they find out that you don’t have enough for next month’s rent or that you haven’t had a call-back in two months.

You decide to end the night by checking Instagram. There, I will surely make it big! I just have to beat the algorithm that is purposely blocking my content due to some conspiracy Mark Zuckerberg is partaking in with the goal of blocking people from making it to the top 1% of users with thousands of followers. Your mind wanders.

You decide to post a head-shot from last year that you paid $200 to get (It’s an investment you know).

You get 220 likes but you have 2000 followers. Everyone hates you. Should you delete it? Perhaps archive it? Fuck it, why should you care.

You pick your phone back up and run through your Instagram feed. Your body is screaming at you for a rest. You sit down on the couch in the shared co-working space. Your body exclaims that it is the ruler now and you fall asleep.

You wake up the next day at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. The regular office workers have already accepted your habit of occasionally sleeping in the office. Everyone has the impression that you are the hardest working. You, however, are still not seeing the results.

Fuck this! – You tell yourself:

Fuck entertainment.

Fuck LA.

Fuck Instagram.

Fuck Everyone.


Exclaimer: This is a summarized version of what Los Angeles was like during my time spent there. This is a work that was inspired by myself and another native Los Angeleno. 


Peter Shaburov