It’s one of those things everyone wishes they could do. 300 days of sunshine, beautiful women, and all the beach one person can handle. There are dreams to be had in California, and yours are all entirely possible if you go there.
Never mind that everyone who wants to go there thinks that. Never mind that getting off a bus in Los Angeles is difficult to do without tripping over the shattered dreams. You’re not special in California; you just think you’re going to be.
Your profession isn’t important. It doesn’t matter if you want to be an actor, or a writer, or some other kind of artistic job that only you think you can succeed at. There is nothing for you, and nobody is going to give anything to you. Nobody cares. You’re one of the masses, and your hopes for achievement are not unique.
So you drink, fuck, and hold on to some part of you that thinks you’ll have one of those “later in life” careers. Bukowski didn’t publish a novel till 50. You’d be just like that. Then all the tail and free dinners in the world would be laid at your feet. You doubt it though, as that shit happened to one lucky, brilliant motherfucker.
Do you really think you’re that good?
But you want to go anyway. Because you think you’ll be happy. You think it will all work out, and enough of you actually believes it so truly, that you’ll drop everything in your life and hit the road. Regardless of where you are, who you’re with, and what you could do in your hometown, you say fuck all that, you’re going to California.
Because there, you know you will be happy.
Before you left, you had a girl. She was perfect. You fucked it up. She left. She was tired of your shit and wanted to try and have a life outside of your self-loathing. She saw what you were doing as running away and some part of you agreed that that was what it was. You told her she could come with you, and you prayed for a Hollywood ending. Left a note on the kitchen table for her to find when she came to pick up her stuff. Then you went to California, taking your drinking problem, and your doom spiral with you. You still think it will be better here. Of course you do, you dreamed that it would be. When have dreams ever lied to you?
It was really about the girl all along. But you won’t figure that out till later. When it really is too late, and you’ve realized the mistakes you’ve made.
So pour another shot bartender. My dreams have come to where they go to die. At least they’ll be among the loving, embracing dead of their compatriots. I know it now that is was a mistake. But you couldn’t have told me that. I wouldn’t have listened, and in a way, I was glad to learn all about fucking up the hard way, as failure yields its own rewards.