In what most might consider his piece de resistance, "Under the Bridge", Anthony Kiedis wrote "sometimes I feel like my only friend is the city i live in". His words haven't rung more true as I entered my city, his city, feeling the kind of depression that one feels after returning to a new home after leaving an old one, one filled with family and history that still doesn't outweigh the 7 or so years I've spent here in Los Angeles.

I feel lost and allergic to my surroundings, unfulfilled by my job, enlightened by my books, and distaste towards those I consider my friends. A general feeling of malaise overcomes me hourly as I struggle to remain focused and inspired in the way I feel when I listen to Kiedis' lyrics or Huxley's words. There's plenty around me to snap me out of it, and it just almost works until I slip back again.

If Los Angeles is my only friend, why can't she show my what she's made of? Why is it so hard for me to simply snap out of it? The perfume in the air is enough to send me into a rage of anger, of bitter feelings.