They say that your first year is the worst year. But it's still the best year.

They say that the first year of living in Los Angeles will kick you in the ass. By "they," I mean everybody. If you can survive the culture shock, brushes with bankruptcy, and frustration that results from not being able to leave your car to buy gummy Coke bottles while you pump your gas, then you just might have what it takes to not only endure, but thrive in the land that I have come to realize is "So Cal."

I never fell prey to the idea that Hollywood consisted of magical movie making fairies and bountiful bookings, but it seems as though any person I run into who justifies paying ninety American dollars to enthusiastically sit in half of a van for two hours as someone chauffeurs them past Wesley Snipes's old house and tries to trick them into thinking they have seen someone tabloid worthy seems to be under the impression that Hollywood is the place where Jesus puts the pending miracles. 

Yeah, um. Hollywood isn't really any of those things. It's actually one of the cheaper places to live in the city and, truth be told, I don't think that famous people go there. If you drive a few miles to the right you will run into the Chateau Marmont shortly before you hit Interstate 101 the 101 (because apparently you aren't allowed to say the words "highway," "freeway," or, God forbid, "interstate,"). Apparently you aren't allowed to use exit numbers on the freeway, either. Once you get a "So Cal" drivers license, the spirit of former Governator Arnold Schwarzenegger comes to you in your dreams and blesses you with the inherent knowledge of which numbers go with each exit.

California is a strange land. Also, what the hell is with beach people? The only ones who wear clothes are the residents of Santa Monica. The rest of them just walk around naked and do a ton of ecstasy while they try to figure out how to lindy hop to Skrillex. Spoiler: It doesn't work. I don't know why the hell these rich white kids think that it looks cool.

I know that I have not been posting nearly as frequently since I arrived in Los Angeles. Adapting to a new culture is hard work. I stayed with the gracious Nugs of That Ain't Kosher for a month before venturing out of the safe haven of West Hollywood and into the jungle of Korea Town to be a glorified nanny.

Notice that I said "glorified" and not "actual" nanny.

My type of nannying is different than taking care of children. Oh, children would be easy. Instead, I am nanny to an entire structure. It has fifty or so rooms. Forty of these rooms contain at least one human being that I am responsible for nurturing. And by nurturing, I actually mean taking their money and making sure that their toilet flushes all the way.

My car has been towed twice, resulting in me paying $300 each time to get it out of the impound lot.  On top of this, I owe the city of Los Angeles $400 more dollars in parking tickets because there is nowhere to park while I do important nanny things.

Because of my nannying gig, I can now say, with one hundred percent certainty, that I have seen the face of certain death and that crack does indeed kill.

I work at a restaurant on weekend nights. Even though this is technically work, it is a welcome vacation for me because I can shut off my nannying phone and justify that action by saying, "Well, I have to pay off these parking fees somehow, don't I?"

As of right now, there is no such thing as "a day off." I have no days off.

I am stressed. I am frazzled. I am frustrated.

But you know what?

I'd still never go back to Georgia.