She's not wrong, and it certainly must seem that way, based on my status updates and blog posts of my various adventures as a California Gurl for the last three months.
While I was living in NYC, I used to be so jealous of an LA friend of mine, who was always posting photos and updates from the beach, rock star parties, impromptu celebrity run-ins, etc. I couldn't imagine what made her so lucky.
And now I realize: I've turned into her.
I met The Chippendales yesterday.
I've seen Prince in concert, twice. I might go again.
I keep a bikini in the car, allowing me to swim in a rock star's swimming pool on a Saturday afternoon, and crash a hot tub party at a mansion in the hills at 2 a.m.
I've kissed a hit TV show writer, a fellow game show winner, and Chelsea Handler's personal caterer.
I celebrated 4/20 with Ziggy Marley at a hemp-filled VIP party.
I've partied with rock stars and burlesque dancers on the Sunset Strip amongst the likes of Ron Jeremy, Daisy de la Hoya, and Riki Rachtman.
I've been mistaken for Zooey Deschanel and Katy Perry.
I had a headshot photo session with a fabulous fashion photog and spent five hours feeling and looking glamourous.
I've already had one big audition. And got my first callback of my post-college acting career.
I regularly mingle with real working actors, writers and directors whose work I respect and who respect my work. Even if I don't always know quite how famous they are.
I strolled Downtown LA under the Supermoon.
I became a Mac.
I wandered the dark corners of private California dream homes.
I order off the In n Out Burger secret menu.
I had a song dedicated to me by Marty & Elaine at the Dresden Room.
It's all very fabulous and fancy, as fancy as my Beverly Hills zip code.
"What, are you on some kind of list or something?" one of my New York friends asked me.
"No," I said, "It's just LA..."
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