Story comes courtesy of Los Angeles Magazine.
I moved to Los Angeles from New York in 1992. I had never been here before. I just kind of showed up. I didn’t have a car and had about $150. My best friend, José, was nice enough to let me share his studio apartment in Santa Monica, which was literally a lean-to—I’m sure it’s been demolished by now. We weren’t in a romantic relationship, but we shared the same full-size bed, which was wedged inside the kitchen area, for almost a year. What’s insane is that we thought nothing of it. I thought everything was great. My older sister Margie had more sense. She came from Illinois to visit me, and since there was nowhere for her to sleep, the three of us now had to share the same bed. In the morning she sat bolt upright and shouted, “This is not OK!” and I was like, What’s her problem?
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