Hooker.

The expensive hooker who lives in my building and I are officially on opposite schedules. Every night when I come home from work (not actually EVERY night, it's actually a few sporadic nights here and there, but for the sake of the story, you know...anyway) her limo - I'm not sure if it's the client or her pimp or what - is waiting outside. We cross paths, acknowledge each other, etc. etc. and then I go home, watch Wipeout, and go to sleep only to...

...Wake up the next morning and leave by 7:20, by which time she is trudging through the door in the process of grabbing the Red Bull by the horns and looking, let's face it, way better than I would if the tables were turned. I can't even think about what the difference in our paychecks is.

My hooker neighbor, expensive or not, paired with my morning commute down Coldwater Canyon and Beverly Drive have made me realize that I am living in the wrong part of Los Angeles. And not even in the figurative "wrong side of the tracks" way, because my neighborhood's fine, if not the teeniest bit geographically inconvenient, but in the way that the people who live in Beverly Hills live in houses plopped in the middle of yards that look like they were landscaped by whatever artists Disney World gets to do their landscaping. I nearly get into a daily car accident just scoping out real estate.

Based on the limo and what I've learned about powerful dudes in Hollywood, I think the odds are pretty good that my expensive hooker neighbor and I have very similar work commutes.