Baby

Everyone’s always writing songs about
Californiaaaaa.

About Malibu and hotel lobbies and all the
girls that are from there.

When you get there something in you changes
and you can never go back:

you’re better than everyone else now.

You know what palm trees really look like. High heels at the gym. Weak drip coffee. Someone says yes m’am and you believe it. 

At 8 o’clock on a weeknight, you’ll find yourself in a vape shop on Abbott Kinney handing over your passport details like they don’t matter anymore.

They don’t. You’re here now. That’s all that matters. If you’ve been to

California then you’ll know

the feeling of abandoning who you are and chasing something else entirely.

You’ll own a linen suit and a rose gold pipe with lavender and CBD to suck on if you ever get in trouble.

Eventually

you’ll have to return home for business or a wedding or a funeral or worse - your visa will run out - and all you’ll have left is

ordering mezcal at a low-lit bar in Auckland. When the waiter sets down your drink you’ll take it in in your hand and say, ‘Thank you,

baby’.