The Dbag Dating Guide to Los Angeles

Typecasting · by Julia Reiss

Whenever my friends in New York or Paris complain about the dating scenes in their respective cities, I can’t help but throw my head back in an unapologetic fit of patronizing laughter. Ça n’a rien à voir avec my hometown of Los Angeles, chéries.

Imagine all the all the mean girls (and boys) in high school who decided compensate for their parents routinely ignoring them (and/or bribing their way into top tier universities) by obtaining worldwide adoration. Now, stick them all in one kale-and-oat-milk-fueled city, and make them compete with one another for entertainment jobs and Instagram likes. That’s Los Angeles for you.

Please keep in mind that the self-important, navel-gazing nature of Hollywood is not industry-specific – everyone in Los Angeles is a celebrity of some sort, if only in their own mind. So, unless pathological narcissism turns you on, I suggest you look elsewhere if it’s love that you’re after.

With all that said, if you do find yourself looking for love in the City of Angels (LOL), here are some of the characters you may encounter.
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Don’t Call Me Crazy (Unless It’s The Right Kind of Crazy)

Misery Loves Company · by Julia Reiss

Sometimes, a small man can make a smart woman do spectacularly stupid things. They might even fall under the “crazy” moniker, but more on that in a bit. I call it being “dick sick.” I wish there was a nicer way to put it, but decorum has no place in this kind of romantic fuckery. In one of my more recent dating disasters, I was so dick sick that I’m almost ashamed to tell you the ways in which I let this sorry excuse for a man take advantage of my heart, my home, and my wallet.

Smoshua and I met on one of those “exclusive” dating apps where douchebags are pre-selected for you—not that I have any problems doing that on my own. His name was obviously not Smoshua, but it rhymes with it, so you do the math. Smoshua (Smosh for short) hailed from Sydney and fancied himself a musician-cum-clothing designer. (Granted, he turned out to be neither of those things.) Anyway, I did a little digging on Smosh when we first matched—a 21st century woman ought to Google all her sexual partners, I believe. Everything seemed to be on the up-and-up, save for a few rogue Daily Mail articles about him and an heiress he used to date. Then again, it was the Daily fucking Mail. Fox does better reporting.

Attack of the Hidden Dad Bod

Misery Loves Company · by Julia Reiss

Editor’s Note: This modern-day horror tale is brought to you by Julia Reiss, a Los Angeles-bred writer and humorist with Parisian tendencies, based in New York City. When she’s not writing or overcome with ennui, you can find her flexing her credit limit at any of the city’s retail establishments. For updates in short form, follow her on Twitter and Instagram. And for all other things Julia, stay up to date at www.iamjuliareiss.com.

The way I see it, online dating has a deceivingly bad rap. Sure, I had my initial trepidations. But that’s only because, as a child of the 80s, I was taught that the only people you could meet online were the those who weren’t allowed to be within 100 feet of a playground.

Things change.