Hallo-weak 2007; Progress!

A hump-day Halloween celebration in Los Angeles is the most worthless holiday observance that could happen to someone above the age of 12. By my calculations, you drank enough malt liquor to the point of saturation/nerve cell damage on the previous weekend, and your costume now has three, small to large(ish), unintentially provocative new holes. It smells of blended Irish Whiskey (Jameson) and something vaguely resembling vomit. You are not sure of the specific events resulting in these soilings, but Friday/Saturday nights are generally guilty. I am unsure as to why anyone would want to put said costume on for a third time, and on a Wednesday no less.

But I digress. Since my arrival, I am readily adjusting to life in the Big Snapple (I'm trying it out...Bueller?) that is LA. In the past few weeks I've accomplished the following:

- sold three (3) tasteless C-list celebrity pictures to TMZ.com, one of which rewarded me quite handsomely by revealing Vanessa Hudgens third nipple.

- slept with two (2) Hollywood agents. Although one of their e-mail addresses ended in "assistant", I have been assured by many a commercially-attractive waiter that these individuals are the lynchpin in my quest for global celebrity and Lakers floor seats.

- ingested one (1) unidentified pill from a charming Hassidic man, resulting in a 4-day meditative journey spanning the Best Buy parking lot on La Brea.

Additionally, I have found an apartment to live in. It smells of a rubber boot and houses more than a small family of roaches. Regardless, it is bigger than any shoebox Manhattan has to offer, and my bedroom possesses a small, Juliet-ish balcony. This balcony was truly the deal-breaker, being that my name is Juliet, and also that it's about time I had a fucking balcony.

1. Do coke, 2. Listen to Yanni

Day 1:

So I've just arrived in Los Angeles, California, having traversed the North American Great Plains on horseback. I came all the way from New York City, where I've been living an average East Village-cowgirl existence: drinking Stella Artois and talking about the merits of laceless Converse. It was a long, dusty, heroine-fueled road to LA, and my ass is chapped from the old leather saddle. And also because I didn't wear pants the entire time. Sometimes I wonder why I didn't just buy a JetBlue ticket, and also why I feel the need to pretend I'm a cowgirl and lie about having ridden horseback to get here. But sometimes in life, there are questions that will go unanswered.

As I rode off Wilshire Blvd. into my first LA sunset atop my mustang pony Mustang Pony, a sage homeless woman wisely muttered to herself: Do coke. Listen to Yanni.

It is here that my adventure begins.