I was in LA over the weekend, and met my first hooker. Not just any hooker either, a transgender hooker. Now I'm not dumb but I can't understand why she walks like a woman and talks like a man. You know you're staying in a classy place when you can meet hookers in the elevator. As if the number 8 in the motel name didn't give it away.
We went to a party in Hollywood. One of the ways I believe you can tell how good of a time you had the night before is the bruises you find in the morning. And judging from the whopper on my shin, I had a great time. Cannot for the life of me remember how I got it, but that just means it was a good party.
By the way, if you address a letter to "The City of Angels" instead of writing Los Angeles, it will get there. I've experimented with letter writing in the past.
