Andy Dick.
Christmas shopping outside in flip-flops.
Accurate forcasts that come not in blocks of 7 days but in blocks of 365.
Being surrounded by people with actual pigmentation.
Running stairs in Santa Monica with Tori Spelling’s boobs and that shirtless Moroccan body-builder who ate small children for breakfast.
Happy hour every hour.
Having my boss show up to work an hour late with a massive case of the munchies.
Running into someone who knows someone whose male cousin has slept with Tom Cruise.
The daily 4am helicopter fly-bys crashing the ecstasy party on the roof of the building, and the subsequent scuffling of Kenneth Cole boots getting the hell out.
Gigantic, perky breasts everywhere.
Knowing people who will get into heaven not because they believe in God, but because they are prettier than God.
People who know how to be pretentious without pretending they aren’t being pretentious.
Bathing Chuck and having him skid like a race car across the hardwood floors head first into the wall of the living room in our old apartment.
Fellow drivers who aren’t afraid of dying.