I don't know what to say.

I wrote another essay for Medium about LA, this one focused on Dodger Stadium and the specific consequences of that "no history" line and the erasure it enacts. I wrote about the Kardashians' apparent triple pregnancy situation and how they use various platforms to maximally monetize our interest in their lives. 

I was going to write to you all about going to see Interpol with my closest friends from high school this weekend but who cares. I was going to write about Yom Kippur and severity and rule-following and dry-swallowing pills and tradition and habit but who cares. (You don't have to write back and tell me you care; what I actually mean is, I can't make myself care enough to do it.)

Sometimes steam comes out from under the hood of my car, but my mechanic, a deeply trustworthy man, says he can't find anything wrong with it. Today he will fix the sideview mirror that's sort of dangling right now, suspended by it's unclear what. I will sit in the diner across the street like I always do when he's fixing my car. I will try not to look at Twitter. I will do what we're all doing: inch away from stunned numbness, try to figure out what it's safe to feel.