The saddest thing about living in LA is how quickly you become immune to the freakshow parading around Robertson, encapsulated on The Hills, immortalized in weekly glossies. I'll defend it when I get back to the UK. "No, not everyone's had plastic surgery," "It's really quite a normal place to live," "of course people have a sense of humor," "there are many angelenos who aren't obsessed with fame." But cliches become so for a reason, and after 24 hours back home, I realize that it is possible to have a conversation with someone whose face moves when you talk to them, and that this same conversation might exclude movies, celebrities, television, awards ceremonies, wealth or plastic surgery. And then you kind of think to yourself, 'Oh fuck.'
And it's about this time -- when you're too small for European sizes, and the fact you've had juvederm and botox is met with horrified silence at the dinner table, and it's deemed a clinical illness that you do yoga five times a week and you don't drink and your ex is a millionaire former crack addict -- that you realize there is actually something quite wrong with LA, and while we're all sniggering at it, regarding ourselves immune, we've caught the same damn disease as everyone else in this tinpot tinseltown.
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