…Leada came up from L.A. to escape the fires. She talked about electromagnetic fields, the ex-Mormon guy who gave her chlamydia, pyros and tweakers, the Rothschilds, the imminent Earthquake that would destroy everything, the entire state of California. She picked Leila up in her car that smelled of old Taco Bell and vape smoke and perfume and just drove, blasting different cloud rappers she’d fucked or tried to fuck or who’d tried to fuck her, who were too ugly to fuck, etc. Talia was in the front passenger seat. They crossed the bridge, weaving manically in and out of traffic, drove through the TL, ended up at Fisherman’s Wharf on a cold, desolate night. It smelled like shit, like bacterial vaginosis. There was a ferris wheel there that neither Leila nor Talia remembered. Everyone was tired, depressed. We could go to a strip club, Leila said. Yeah, Talia said, but I don’t have any money. They got back in the car, started heading towards the peninsula. Leada said fuck Gavin Newsom. And: these fires are being set intentionally by degenerate tweakers, they should be shot on site. Leila had a theory of the fires she hadn’t heard anywhere, one she kept to herself. To her mind, the Palisades fire couldn’t have been coincidental, and unlike the following fires, set probably by psychotics in the thrall of some anti-social contagion, these were well planned, executed. Rich homeowners in California had just collectively lost their home insurance one week before, there’d been several days notice about the Santa Ana winds, the fire hydrant system appeared to fall victim to sabotage. These fires were an act of guerrilla war against the rich by politically motivated poor people: a kind of opening manifesto written in flames, in the incineration of the property and houses of the ultra wealthy, including the cancerous celebrity class. People had finally had enough, been pushed to a breaking point. We are entering the time of a great conflagration, Leila thought, apocalyptic class war, terminal and warring psychosis, holocaust without end. In this class war, she took no side, registering only the certainty of pitiless fascism from the rich, depraved violence, in response, from the poor. They got to a cemetery in Colma. Talia wandered off to look at the graves, the weeping angels. Leada was scared, on edge. Stay close, she said to Leila. Leila was already, perversely, hopelessly in love with her, a kind of final suicidal love in the form of self-sabotage: love like asbestos in the air. It was the sumptuous, long dark hair for her, lips filled with Juvederm, her siren eyes, her corrupt and luxurious aura. When they’d found out they’d grown up in the same hometown, ten years apart, a place they’d hated like their entire cursed childhoods, it was all over for Leila. This was a girl who’d come to haunt her from the past, some primal dream past in which her eroticism had taken form, a prefiguration of the end, though not the end.
…
From…When I’m With You It’s Paradise (Lesbian Bimbofication Manual)