Southern California’s on fire. It does that a lot. 2025 gave us hurricane force winds and fire. Lots of it.
People I know, places I frequented are lost. And it’s weird. First and foremost, it’s fucked up. It’s tragic and it’s weird.
Call it survivor’s guilt because that’s probably what it is. But it’s weird.
It’s weird that places I frequented. They’re gone.
It’s weird that the hipster-like pizza joint that seems like it was uprooted from Highland Park to Altadena Side Pie is gone.
It’s weird that the Rancho Bar, where I’ve had weird dates, is gone.
It’s weird that I’m chatting up women on Hinge amidst the stuff. Life goes on.
I volunteered. I felt pretty unhelpful just stacking food, organizing food, organizing things, moving pallets of water around. I’m sure it helps, though. It’s just weird.
It feels weird to feel weird about it all given I was minorly inconvenienced. The wind blew one way instead of another—such is life.
Everyone’s moving on to the next thing, the next concern and I’m still here. What about what just happened? What do we do? What about the people who lost it all and more? Well… what about them?? They have to move on, too, and they may not. The world is too fast for normal times, I guess.
I get two gifts every day. I get to open my eyes and try again. I’ll take it and say my thanks, even in these weird and fucked times.