L.A. ON CRUTCHES

Today I spent the whole day with my friend Bricks making a one-minute Instagram video about her crossing L.A. on her crutches just to get a slurpee. We started in Downtown, hit up the La Brea Tar Pits in Mid-city and ended in a 7-Eleven in Santa Monica. Two things that were consistent were how much it sucks to have a broken foot (or any bone really), trying to get around town and how many homeless people there are in this city. It's not unknown, it's part of our urban ecosystem, but when we saw a woman be stopped by police for who knows what, I thought, "What if those police were doctors." Homeless, mentally ill and drug addiction go hand in hand ever since Regan days, but there are many moments I don't want to be in this particular dimension and I question if this portal of time is even real. What if they see the truth? When I get called weird, when I think most of my behavior is quite normal, it bothers me because WHAT THE FUCK IS NORMAL? What if homeless people are "normal" and we're the "odd" ones for wanting apartments and beds and cars and jewelry and clothes? To put it all in perspective: Who you think I'm gunna follow when the end of time comes? That's right, the fucking crazy homeless people.

Because in reality, they are the reality.