I'm probably shooting myself in the foot here by saying this out loud (or letting my fingertips do the talking, natch). But here goes nothing: a post of an unverifiable scale, whose grandiose public pronouncements and flagrantly transparent opinions will undoubtedly land me in the dog house with more than a few people (and by "few people" I mean, of course, people who don't understand sarcasm, to which I have no rebuttal except "Just kidding. Sheesh.").
I will never date a man who lives in Westwood.
There, I said it. Commence aiming gun at unsuspecting ped and pulling trigger. Boom.
Of course, I add this deal-breaker to an already too-lengthy list of deal-breakers (among them: I will not marry a cop. I will not marry a guy who loathes Disneyland. I will not date a boy who only eats melon. The list goes on.), and it in no way reflects nor targets any person - real, fictional, dead, alive, or otherwise - but it has to be said. I just can't do it.
The reasons are immediately transparent to me, but for the rest of you who might be scratching your heads and thinking, "Huh?!" (or, "You're insane." Or even, "Shut up, PLEASE, I BEG YOU!") I'll expound:
The main reason I could never date a guy who lives in Westwood is simple. There are SO. MANY. OTHER. great places to live in Los Angeles, even on the West Side, that aren't bland and claustrophobic and crowded and expensive. So why would you willingly live in a place whose only purpose is to house the veritable UCLA doucheoisie (seriously, I've probably earned at least five new nemesis with that statement alone. My only defense is to say, No way, man, I'm totally not talking about you. I'm talking about those other people. Cool, brah?) and Industry People (again, other. People. Not you. There are, what, approximately 45 million people living in Westwood)?
What's more, by living in Westwood you (nonspecific 'you') are choosing to make it back-breakingly difficult for anyone who isn't within a four block radius of your epicenter to visit you. Because to see you at any time of the night or day, said friend has to brave the only dastardly freeway conveniently close to you: the 405. I mean, who loves the 405? Can I see a show of hands? No one? Not one person? Oh, that's right. Of course not. BECAUSE THE 405 SUCKS. (It's not my intention to insult or otherwise degrade the planners, construction workers, architects or masterminds behind the conception, construction, or creation of the 405 Freeway)
You are willingly planting yourself in an area that's about as congested as bacon fat clogged arteries. It's noisy. It's busy. And the parking sucks. AND YOU CHOSE TO LIVE THERE! (The very idea incenses me to the point of e-shouting. I've popped a CAPS on your arses, people! Can you comprehend the rage?)
Ergo, I can never date a dude who lives in Westwood because our fundamental ideals are just too different. I might live semi-far away from it all, but at least I'm convenient to visit. I'm equidistant from the 405, 605, 710 and 110 freeways. Take your pick! Oh, and you La Habra peeps, take note: I can almost hear you chiming in with, "Well WE'RE equidistant from many freeways as well!"
You're equiFAR from any freeway, La Hab. So pipe down or I'll scrawl your name on the list faster than you can say "Beach BLVD."
Well. Now that I've either alienated or upset at least 65% of the worldwide population, I think it's time to sign off and enjoy the rest of my weekend which includes driving. To Westwood.