It's no secret that many an urban dweller regularly faces commitment issues. Embraces them, perhaps. The grass is always greener and in Los Angeles, the infinity pools are always more infinite. Under the guise of 'opportunism', this special breed of arrested developers maintain faith based on the principles of perfection: that the perfect job, the perfect relationship, the perfect apartment is lurking around every corner. But sometimes, you find yourself stuck between a responsibility rock and a commitment place.
In my case, it showed up at midnight in West Hollywood on my birthday. Now I'm the kind of girl who can't even keep a pet rock alive. I've had more jobs than I can count on my fingers and toes, and I can only just barely assemble a PB & Banana sandwich. So during a nighttime lounging session amidst the British and mid-century stylings of the Palihouse, acknowledging yet another year, I was imbibing elderflower champagne. I mean I REALLY wasn't expecting any particular responsibilities. Suddenly, two of my friends strolled in from the San Gennaro Italian Festival with their carnival winnings (translation: my birthday present). Standing there at the bartop, I open my special gift. A water-filled Ziploc bag. Containing a tiny goldfish.
