I have no idea who Cirocco Dunlap is. The #1 Google result tells me that she’s an actor and writer in Brooklyn, but as of this past week, she may have evolved into something a little more… recognizable (geographic location considered). That’s because Lady Dunlap delivered a fencing match of stellar truth national importance via the New Yorker this past week.
The piece serves as a hilarious + descriptively-proper back-and-forth in the diary of a human that cannot decided between living in New York City or Los Angeles.
“My bike wouldn’t fit in my two-inch-wide urine-soaked apartment in Sunset Park, so I found someone to take over my lease and I rode a Segway all the way to Hollywood, eating local fruits and reciting positive affirmations as I rolled merrily along.”
“At my first party in Los Angeles, I heard the word “agent” more than fifteen thousand times. (I tried to keep a tally, but my fingers started bleeding, so I stopped.) People went on “generals” and never returned. I knew I needed to get back to where the real people were, the people of substance and letters, who understood the Struggle.”
