pov: you live in east hollywood

but you tell everyone outside of LA you live in Silverlake. It's 10:30. You’re at 4100 bar with some friends and you feel crossed enough to walk home. Your uber is connected to your dad’s credit card but you ordered so much uber eats last month he’s cutting you off. Whatever, you like the adventure. You snuck a knife in your coat behind your wallet for this very reason. You’re a semi-cute girl so you got away with it, or at least you’re girl-passing. You prefer they/them pronouns but no one ever remembers or cares. Not even LA is safe from the creeping wave of republicanism. You finish your pickle beer, say goodbye, and exit. You take out your knife as soon as you round the corner onto Santa Monica. You walk quickly and a beat plays in your head with the words “a knife, a knife, bitch I got a knife, I got a knife.” You think about producing that on ableton when you get home, but you don’t think anyone would listen to it. You know the basics of production and DJ-ing but haven’t really done anything with that. The girl you’re fucking does, or at least, she goes to more downtown raves than you do. She’s big in the scene, or at least you feel like she is. She lives pretty close nearby as well, you think as you look both ways before crossing the street. She’s one of two people you’re fucking, and you get the vibe she doesn’t like you that much, but her dick is huge, so. The other person you’re fucking is on a UCB house team and you’re not sure who to brag about this to. Now you’re passing the 7/11 you sometimes go to on the way to work. You used to primarily drink monster energy when you lived in the midwest, but when you first moved to LA an influencer in a class you took always showed up with a celsius, so now you always drink those. She should work on commission because she definitely got you there. As you continue you think, “wow, this walk is longer than I remember.” But then again, you’re by yourself and forgot your wired earbuds. You contemplated adding them to your pocket before leaving the bar but then thought, “why would I need headphones at a bar?” A mistake you sorely regret. You’re coming up on a comedy club you used to frequent and illegally bartend at. They had free open mics every night of the week, paid for through liquor sales without a license. The vibe there now is completely different. There’s no middle aged men outside playing quarters, but you already know the door code. You shuffle inside through the silent, dark audience to their bathroom. What was once a total men’s club now has tampons on their shelf. Nice. You exit and ask the presumably legal bartender what show this is. The two men on stage don’t seem to be telling any jokes and no one is laughing. Another man comes up and explains what the bit is but you can’t really hear. He then asks if you bought a ticket. They’re only five bucks and you want to support the comedy scene, so you oblige. You stay for a few minutes but the men on stage aren’t that interesting, so you head back out on your walk home. You come upon what your late neighbor called “the pee-pee tunnel” before her premature passing in a nozz-related car accident. You hold your knife tightly in your coat pocket, rhythmically shuffling the blade in and out. You’re scared to whip it out lest there be a citizen notification of “woman holding knife in pee-pee tunnel.” Trash lines the walls, but you see the bright stadium lights over the baseball field on the other side. The walk down the rest of the street is nothing, just the moon over the flowers and the bushes and the blisters on your feet. But, you’re home.