Dear Los Angeles:
Normally, I hate you. You are too pretty, too boring, too soft. Your blithe citizens chuck #nofilter Instagrams into my feed. You made Coachella "a thing," which made floral headdresses, lecherous underbutt slideshows, and #branded #poolparty #activations "a thing." Your pizza is an abomination. Your crimes against humanity are vaster than the sprawl of your newly poured concrete, LA. You are despicable, and you know it.
But today? Today, I pity you, Los Angeles. The New York Times, with its infinite Times-ean foresight into world's "new Brooklyns," has declared you the latest refuge of choice for New York City's wayward "L train set."
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Los Angeles, but if this is true, it means one thing: you are entirely and completely fucked. Have you been to Brooklyn?! It's the best place. I live there. But it's also filled with some of the most self-involved, heinously over-opinionated, insufferable middle-class monsters the world has ever known. (As proof that I'm not one of these people: I would never, ever, move to California.)