At 1 a.m. EST

I just published my red lipstick musings. In between writing, clicking, linking, and posting, I’m reading these stories—houses aflame, neighborhoods burned down, schools evacuated.

LA is burning.

Across the country, I’m snuggled with two kids, their little bodies pushing me closer to the edge of my bed. Tomorrow comes early, but maybe I can slip out for a quick manicure. And still, LA is burning.

Drones are flying over my neighborhood. On the HOA WhatsApp, someone shared a link to an FBI form. It’s for amateur photographers with high-powered cameras, asking them to upload sharp images of alien ships hovering.

TikTok may be banned soon, and I’ll have to navigate Instagram instead—for news, fashion micro-trends, and updates on the latest presidential transfer of power. It will be exhausting. The clicking, linking, liking in desperate platforms. I am scared of X.

They’re running out of water. Ocean water will break the equipment, but they’ll do what they have to do. I am so tired. Half the time, I can’t even comprehend what I’m looking at.

LA burns.