My cab driver didn’t say one damn word to me during the entire 40 minute ride from JFK to my apartment.
200 points NYC.
Final score: LA 581; NYC 354
(In case you’re unfamiliar with this game, which is played every time I visit LA, Spoiler Alert– NYC never wins. We have piles of garbage on our streets, guys. We’re disgusting.)
— homeless person on Santa Monica beach, to me.
50 points L.A.
The only thing an NYC homeless person has ever called me is “White bitch.” (And she was white! I don’t know why that made it worse, but it did.)
LA 81; NYC 9
20 points LA. This changes everything.
LA 31; NYC 8
LA:
NYC:
Point L.A.
LA 11; NYC 8
“No. Why would we?”
Five points LA.
LA 10; NYC 7
(Side note: “Point LA!” — Libby, after every single thing that happens. No. It doesn’t work that way. I decide how points are allotted, and there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to any of it. You know what? Point NYC for people in LA thinking they can influence the point system.)
New score: LA 10; NYC 8
This L.A. meteorologist just referred to these Wrightwood, CA temps as “frigid” and issued a “freeze warning.”
No. Buy a fucking cardigan, Wrightwood. You’re fine.
Point NYC.
LA 5, NYC 7
Yesterday my L.A. friends took me to a “pressed juicery,” where I refused to purchase anything kale. Or anything juice, really. I don’t do juice. They INSISTED I get SOMETHING, and I didn’t want to be rude and close-minded. I craftily noticed, by the grace of god, that they had coffee on the menu, so I conceded to getting that (even though everyone knows, thanks to a meth-like addiction, I only drink Starbucks).
Just now…
Me: “I’ll have the coffee we got yesterday after I go for my morning run.”
Friend: “You mean the juice?”
Me: “No. I got a coffee.”
Friend: “Well, it’s a coffee-juice.”
WHAT.
Point New York.
LA 1, NYC 2
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