Catch Me Ridin’ Dirty

Everyone knows that Los Angeles traffic will murder your soul, which is the one and only reason that I am okay with Siri directing me through the streets of South Central LA in order to get me to work in a timely manner. Because I’d like to think of myself as a relatively positive individual, I’m obviously going to attempt to make the best of my commute through some of the Southland’s most dangerous neighborhoods. Let me tell you about this morning’s travels:

Hey girl hey!

So I was cruising down Slauson, in the middle of the hood, when this little gangsta rolls up in his pimped out Nissan Sentra. I would estimate it’s original existence dated all the way back to 1989. The young man sat almost fully reclined in his primordial automobile as an absolutely atrocious rap song blasted from his vehicle – windows rolled all the way down and bass turned all the way up, naturally. The entire site appeared undeniably stereotypical, but his car’s complete lack of aesthetics and swagger ruined any sort of intimidation he was attempting to emit.

Ridin’ dirty

My next gesture, admittedly, was probably on the foolish side – but as a self-proclaimed entertainer of the masses, I couldn’t resist. As the two of us pulled up next to one another at a stoplight, I went there.  Sunroof rolled back and windows cracked, I had no choice but to turn up the volume to an uncomfortable level and completely rock out to One Direction. I sang along. I sang to him. I sang to myself. I sang to the helpless passerbys and to no one at all. I’m not sure who was more entertained – myself or the teenagers waiting to cross the street. Had I finally reached the breaking point? Had I lost all sanity? Absolutely. All in all, I knew the entire performance was a success when I heard one young lady shout “YOU GO, WHITE GIRL!” over the resonant hymns of “What Makes You Beautiful.”

There I was: a totally hot blonde  in a white Jetta, jamming to some quality boy band pop music. We were two blatant stereotypes, and yet, for a moment, it was almost serendipitous. Poetic. Surreal. And absolutely tragic that I had nobody but strangers to share it with.

Orange mocha fraps anyone!? No? K.

As much as I desperately wanted to photograph and record the entire incident, it occurred to me that if my vehicular friend was (stereotypically) packing heat, things may not have resulted in an ideal scenario – so when the light turned green, I hauled ass outta thurrr and will hopefully never encounter any of those individuals ever again. I did, however, see a full on brawl getting broken up by police at a nearby gas station on my lunch break. With one week left at this temporary professional endeavor, I am crossing my fingers and praying to Cher Horowitz that I won’t get mugged.

This is an Alaïa!

That is today’s epic adventure and the day isn’t even over yet.

Party on & don’t get shot!


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