The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on The Style Con:
The year is 2004, 2005, or 2006, and it is some month that ends with a letter from the alphabet, probably an “r” or a “y” given probability and statistics. I could try to furnish you with a more specific timeframe, but Los Angeles, with its painfully weatherless void and ever-sunny disposition, has robbed my memory of signposts, of welcome signifiers that are imperative to detailed storytelling. While the time might be a blur and the window during which it happened wide, I have clarity of a few arguably more pertinent details:
One, it happened in a parking lot.
Two, he was a massively painful douche.