I recently had In-N-Out for the first time. And now, I am a different person. While I could probably become a different person even if I didn’t have In-N-Out, somehow its scrumptious existence making contact with my mouth hole has changed me to my core.

To be more broad and to reach my word count, living in the city of Los Angeles has changed every little thing about me, myself and I. My lifestyle has changed, as a result of living in a city that was inexplicably built in the middle of a desert. Let me tell you how.

Today, I got to work early. I do this everyday. And everyday, I sit in my car in the parking garage and practice excessive heavy breathing as I meditate in the silence of my ‘98 Toyota Camry. A notification goes off at 8:15 sharp and I’m there, listening to a British dude whisper to me about my body. I’m pretty sure his name is Andy. It’s his app. He’s a good guy. I work at 10:30.

At nights, I fall asleep to a Spotify playlist of ocean waves and my alarm in the morning is a didgeridoo. Yet, despite these peaceful habits and my seven candles, my vibes are often too un-chill. It’s not because I don’t hang loose enough — I hang loose, I assure you — it’s because of the constant knots in my back and fissures in my brain from, you guessed it, the traffic.

That’s right. All the rumors are true. My Masshole heritage never prepared me for the Mad Max environment of the Los Angeles highways, and that should tell you something. Apparently some people’s car horns are just human screams. People flip the bird and birds have declared war on me, personally. You should see my car. It’s as if the high school prom were held at Bonnaroo, except, like, for birds and about toilets. Plus, “Nader 2016” was doodled onto my smogged-up windshield and I think someone needs someone to talk to.

I’ve never been so disrespected in my entire life, and I had a YouTube channel in middle school.

But wait, there’s more: I eat salads — with beets. And while I haven’t yet caved to the kale phenomena, I did build my own water filtration rig that hangs off the Santa Monica Pier. If I have to go bottled, I’m going Fiji. I don’t mean I’m flying to Fiji to bottle that water, that would be ridiculous. I was just there.

Plus, I went to the gym twice, and I mean hey, come on.

And did I mention In-N-Out? No one ever mentions In-N-Out.

But how can I talk about L.A. without talking about the weather? Memories of a Syracuse winter are now nothing more than those of the Oregon Trail: brutally forgotten. Now, the lightest hoodie makes me break into a fearsome sweat. Throughout my nights ruling the Hollywood streets, I’ll shiver at a breezy sixty degrees, longing for the flannel I’ve left gathering dust in my closet. I watched “Singing in the Rain” because I forgot what precipitation looked like.

What I have yet to experience, though, is a true L.A. earthquake. The leading experts of someone’s generation claim that there’s currently a one percent chance of having “The Big One,” and I’m 1000 percent terrified. So, I’m staying inside and watching “Planet Earth” on Netflix. If the real Earth splits open, whatever, at least these antelopes seem like they’re doing fine. What could go wrong?

Ian McCourt is a senior television, radio and film major. His column appears weekly in pulp. You can follow him on twitter @OrderInMcCourt or reach him at iwmccour@syr.edu

Published on October 11, 2016 at 9:48 pm