This week's guest post is by one of the funniest humans I know: Carly Woodworth.
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| We're very close. There are lots of pictures of us together. |
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| Look at their stupid little faces. |
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| (I didn't.) |
Now that your taste has been whetted, keep reading to hear more about this magical place.
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The Midnight Lookout
On Mulholland
On Saturday night after working a full day, I successfully
sabotaged all fun to be had by pointing out that my boyfriend was being a dick
(it should be noted he disagreed, and while who knows which one of us was
right, we can all just agree it was me). Fighting always depresses me. While
I’m usually talkative enough to carry a conversation with the bagger at the
grocery store, when I fight with my man friend I shut up completely. And then I
get mopey. I’m clearly a big ol’ bag of fun to be around.
When neither of us budged in our conviction that the other
person was clearly being the dick, I
threw myself on the bed and insisted that I needed to “get out of LA. Like the
top of Runyon Canyon, but without the hiking/walking/exercising part. Because
I’m lazy.” Oh, you thought tantrums with outrageous requests were just for
toddlers? Think again! I truthfully wanted to go home and sit outside on my
mom’s driveway and look at the stars and listen to depressing music like any
other angsty teenager, but that was impossible, probably because I’m a fucking
22-year-old. Intent on being difficult and feeling entitled to my angsty moment
under the stars, I curled up in Boyfriend’s bed and wondered why he hadn’t
dumped me yet.
While I contemplated painting my nails black, Boyfriend got
on his computer, most likely to research how to best break up with your
girlfriend when she’s clutching your comforter and humming Fallout Boy lyrics
through tears. Ten minutes later, he threw a sweatshirt at me and nudged my
arm. “Hey. Get up. We’re going.” “Where are we going?” I sniffed, sexily
smearing snot across my face. “It’s a surprise.” He looked more determined than
happy. And probably a little grossed out by the smeared mascara and snot
decorating my puffy, red face (on a side note, I rarely wear mascara, but when
I do I ALWAYS end up crying because God hates me). Fairly certain he wasn’t
driving to the middle of nowhere so he could kill me and bury me for being such
a psychopath, I got in the car and didn’t say another word the whole drive. A
half hour later, we arrived at a lookout on Mulholland Drive, which I’ve never
driven down but always wanted to. We stepped out of the car and looked out into
the pitch black at the twinkling lights of Los Angeles. And suddenly, looking
into the vast vacuum of space, I felt better. I guess the moral of the story is
that the best boyfriends answer your angsty tantrums with trips to a lookout on
the top of Mullholand Drive (which I just now realize may have been an attempt
to throw me off a cliff).
The rest of the night was spent traipsing down a
terrifyingly pitch black trail, peeing our pants after some dickwad jumped out
at us, getting told on a megaphone by a policewoman that the park had closed,
and stumbling across an erotic photoshoot in which a man took pictures of a
woman in a black leotard and a mesh shirt, no bra. We both stared and
complimented her lovely bosom. Then we had amazing tacos, ice cream, and the
night stayed perfect until I asked about Boyfriend’s ex. Yes, I know, I’m a fucking
idiot.
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If you would like to read more by Carly, a disgusting comedienne, I highly recommend her blog: carlywoodworth.wordpress.com.
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