(For some reason, all morning I've been thinking and talking in an Irish accent. It would behoove you to read aloud this post in your best County Clare accent, mostly because it's funnier that way. It also sounds slightly more important. There.)
I'll say this, and ye all must hear it:
I do not want to date anyone anymore. Unless he is some sort of superhero kind lobsterman carpenter who can do differential calculus and play the lute, and who'll pick up after himself and only wants the exact same number of children as I do, and when I do, and where, I will have none of it.
I'll have none of your farty LA industry hacks in sleek cars oozing with cologne and Rolex watches and Blackberries and more brand names than human being.
I'll have none of your screenwriters. Jesus Christ, are there fucking screenwriters in this city. Everyone is a screenwriter. Everyone. It's requisite. You can't live in this city without spontaneously generating forty pages of a script that in all ways is the exact replica of Good Will Hunting except that instead of a Will it's a Wilhelmina, and instead of Boston it's Portland, and instead of being a math genius, she can play Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu with her elbows.
I'll have none of your rock gods, hot as they are. At 28, I've begun to outgrow the need for a constant headache and my hearing is bad enough as it is. Nothing is more pathetic than a near-30 groupie.
I'll have none of your arty loft-living photographer/graphic designer/art directors that have begun to infest the old downtown banking district. I have no interest in your collection of mid-century furniture, and yes, I think a tattoo of Magritte's "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" on your dick is about the cheesiest thing I've ever seen. Yes, you!
I'll have none of your fusion chefs. I'll have none of your real estate agents or entertainment lawyers. Leave me alone,
I'll have none of your sensitive philosopher-cum-graduate students. I have no pity for your poverty. You're the ones who chose to go to graduate school in the middle of Los Angeles. Don't you know that you're supposed to go to grad school in the Midwest or New England, someplace cold and essential, preferably a small town where the bartenders know you and won't charge you for the second round? Of course you're having a hard time working here. It's gorgeous outside. Who wants to read Derrida and Foucault when it's gorgeous outside?
I'll have none of your post-college frat boys that live in the beach cities. I do not go to sports bars for several reasons but primarily it is because I have no interest whatsoever in your opinion of the NCAA. At all. Really. Take off your baseball hat, you're inside, for goodness sakes.
No, and while you're sweet and dopey, I want none of your idealistic midwestern or southern or whatever you are LA newbies. I have no desire to show you around and to hear how lonely you are and how empty this city is because in six months you'll know your way around and you won't think you're lonely anymore and you'll be just as vacant and self-absorbed as every other industry person who gives the impression that Angelenos are all of us vacant and self-absorbed. You're part of the problem, can't you see?
Do I sound strident? Good! I mean to be! I know some of you are thinking that I'll never catch a man with this attitude. Thank God! I don't want to catch a man with any kind of attitude! It sounds like some sort of disease, doesn't it? Caught a man, have you?
I am therefore taking my place amongst the confirmed bachelorettes of Los Angeles, and long may the day and the way be, and true I might end up in a Beechwood apartment with two King Charles Cavalier puppies that won't stop pooping in the house, but at least I won't be stuck with a screenwriter.
The end. Of my rant.