Everyone In LA Is An REDACTED: Book 2

By Sarah Fuller, Sarah Noffke and Michael Anderle

LA is a beast. A city that swallows most with its glamour and glitz.

However, as a science fiction writer, Sarah Fuller has a hard time trying to fit in with the socialites, granola moms and trendy hipsters. That’s why she chooses to passively sit by and make fun of them. No one is safe from her ridicule.

Thrown back into the dating arena in her late thirties, Sarah encounters brand new challenges.

Readers will laugh out loud at the adventures and mishaps this sassy protagonist gets herself into. She explores LA life, seeing it through her unique lens.

Adventures in WeHo, drag queen bingo, pot dispensaries and all the strangeness that comes out of LA weave together in this crazy, episodic adventure.

Can you handle the absurdities? 

Fans of Chelsea Handler and Sex in the City will love Everyone in LA is an Asshole, a series that doesn’t hold back and says what we’re all secretly thinking.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: LMBPN Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2018

Book preview

Sarah

Chapter One

Did I Just Get Called to the Principal’s Office?

I’m a rule follower. I’ve always been one. I crave order. And I fucking hate getting in trouble.

When I was a child, if an adult looked at me with anything less than a smile, I was fairly certain that I’d ruined their life and they were going to punish me. I never wanted to disappoint, therefore that kept me in line most of my life. My ex-husband’s motto in life is, Ask forgiveness, rather than permission.

Hell-fucking-no.

You can see why things didn’t work out in the end, can’t you?

I might write a book where I call everyone in LA an asshole, but I’m actually pretty straight and narrow.

When I started the first book in this series, I had major anxiety. I was making fun of people. I was calling out my friends. Was everyone in LA going to hate me? However, the more I began to talk about the idea to fellow Los Angelians, the more I realized how awesome the people are here. Most laughed at the idea. And they may not think of themselves as assholes, but they definitely see others that way.

Sarah, you should see the shit that goes on at my daughter’s school. The bitches there are crazy. So high maintenance. They’re very LA, Zoe said to me as we stood in line for coffee. She then turned her attention to the Starbucks cashier. Can I please get a grande iced quad espresso in a venti cup? You add the milk. Half skim and half whole milk. Light ice. Two stevia and two sugars. Add Vanilla powder. Oh, and cinnamon dolce topping, but not too much. And extra whip.

I’ll take a black coffee, I said when the overwhelmed cashier looked up after a solid minute of recording Zoe’s order.

The idea for this book actually came from my publisher. He’d requested that we meet about an upcoming book. I, of course, figured I was in trouble about something and he was going to fire me over video comm.

I’m not sure why, probably out of nervousness, but I started telling him various stories from my dating life. Apparently my pathetic attempts at dating were entertaining to him. That’s when the idea for this series was born.

What? You want me to write about my life in LA? I asked. But I’m a science fiction writer.

I didn’t know how to talk about myself. I always put all my strange idiosyncrasies into the AIs in my books. I wrote eleven books about a British jerk who was truly just me. I wasn’t sure how I was going to take off the mask and actually write about myself. Everyone would know the truth: I’m an asshole.

The things that go through my brain aren’t right. I’ll be the first one to admit it. However, readers related to the British asshole and the AIs who made mean-spirited jokes. So maybe we were all assholes, just pretending to be on our best behavior.

My friend Sue says she makes her boys have a public self. That’s the part you portray to the world. The acceptable one. The right one. The one who doesn’t get scolded by the church lady.

It’s not the real self, keep in mind. That’s the one I’m giving to you here.

You can still write science fiction, if you want to, my publisher stated. But I think this would be fun for you.

I wasn’t being fired, but it sort of felt like it. Who was I if I wasn’t writing science fiction or fantasy books? That’s who I am. I’m a nerd. A dork with a true love for science. I didn’t know how to write about my love life.

Do you know how happy it made me when my daughter asked for a 3D printer for her birthday? I felt like she’d just gotten into college.

Honey, although I appreciate the idea, I began, leaning down low to talk to Eleanor, a 3D printer isn’t really in the budget this year. What’s second on your list?

Well, I really want a dog, but I figured if you got me the 3D printer then I could just print one, she stated.

Damn, she is a fucking genius.

My daughter’s creative and cognitive development took off at a young age. I like to think that’s a result of her exposure to my creative pursuits. However, then I’d have to also point the finger at myself for the fact that she’s got zero empathy. I love my child more than anything in this fucking world. However, when we watched Charlotte’s Web together, and she didn’t cry at the end, I sort of became a little concerned.

It’s just a spider, Mommy, she said, her face completely dry.

With glistening tears, I shook my head at the little sociopath. "Ch-Ch-Charlotte, isn’t just a spider. She’s special and because of her, Wilbur lived."

She nodded, like she understood. Waited the customary time, and then asked for dinner. I feel like breakfast for dinner. What do you think?

I was pretty certain my little offspring was insinuating she wanted bacon.

Anyway, thankfully, she’s picked up my science fiction dreams. I told her one day I’d get her that 3D printer. One day.

So I’m not being fired? I asked my publisher again over video comm, needing to double check. You actually want me to write more books?

He blanched at me. What? Yes, and why would you think that I was firing you?

Well, when you said you wanted to talk, I sort of felt like I was being called to the principal’s office, I stated.

He shook his head at me. You know that sometimes I just want to check in with you. That doesn’t mean you’re in trouble.

I shrugged. I didn’t know that actually. All of this was new to me. And now I was supposed to write about my life as a science fiction writer, trying to date in LA.

It was hard for me to understand how that was at all interesting to the masses. I spent half my adulthood not talking to real people. Then I spent the other half crafting characters who I spoke to. And now at age thirty-seven, I was pushing myself out into the crazy world of Los Angeles and forcing myself to date. Who wants to watch this nerd who has zero game try and make conversation with eligible bachelors in one of the toughest dating scenes in the United States?

If you raised your hand, then I might have a story or two that will make you laugh. Apparently, my life is hilarious, but only because I have no clue what I’m doing. And LA is the perfect backdrop for this shit-show I keep attending.

Welcome to the jungle.

Chapter Two

Position Open, Hipsters Need Not Apply

I took a break from dating over the summer. Mostly it was because Eleanor was out of school, and I wanted to spend time with her. However, it was also because I wanted to get fat. Let’s be honest.

It got kind of ridiculous when I’d pull into the Jack in the Box drive-thru and they had all of my condiments ready in preparation for my order, which never changed. I was the diva who requested the cold ranch dressings, because the room temperature stuff makes me sick. And I always needed six packets of ketchup even though I only used four for the curly fries. Hey, I’m stockpiling the stuff, obviously.

Since I ate enough carbs over the summer to give a horse a sugar coma, I’ve now put myself on the keto diet. It’s awesome because I get to eat as much ranch dressing as I like. Just no fries…

The other day when I was at a restaurant and asked for yet another side of ranch, I was sort of offended when the waitress brought out a bowl of it. I looked classy pouring little cups of ranch over my salad. However, there was nothing classy about having a vat of ranch sitting next to my leafy greens.

Anyway, presently, I’m eating lots of steak, lettuce and cheese to make up for what I did to my body over the summer. And I’m back on the dating app, swiping away, trying to find a man who won’t judge my ranch intake. Or fucking steal my ranch. I once broke up with a guy because he always hogged all the ranch that came with the fries at restaurants. He’d pick up the container of ranch and clean it with one of the last remaining fries. It was so fucking ridiculous to me. I’d just stare at him, open-mouthed with disgust. Then I’d say, Are you sure you’re not an only child? Because you act like one.

I can say that because my little sociopath, Eleanor, is an only child and she totally double dips and uses all the community condiments without regard for others. I’m from a large family and learned fucking manners. Growing up the youngest of four, it’s ever a wonder that I didn’t starve to death. My siblings were ruthless when it came to food, but somewhere along the way, we learned to share. Sort of.

Speaking of sharing, it’s time that I talk to the men out there about their dating profiles and how best to share about themselves. I covered this at length in the first book, but it doesn’t really matter, you all don’t seem to be listening. The shit I see on the dating app makes me wonder if you all really want to meet someone special. Or do you just want to see how low my standards will fall? My expectations definitely aren’t where they were when I first started this dating game.

He can’t be over six-foot-tall because I’ll give him a backache, having to lean over to kiss me, I explained to my friend Alissa. He has to have a formal education, love his job, want to travel, not have red hair, have blue eyes, speak with a British accent, love cats, not be a Capricorn, not be a sports fan, pay his taxes, read good books, love his mother, and be cool with eating frozen yogurt for dinner every so often.

Alissa gave me a blank stare. May I suggest that you narrow it down to three to five things that you want? Stuff that’s not so specific.

Like that he has abs? I asked.

She shook her head. If you keep limiting your options, you’ll miss the right guy.

As Alissa is prone to be, she was absolutely right. I had cast too small of a net into this vast pool of sharks. That’s why now I just want someone who is attractive, intelligent, fun and morally astute. I’m not asking for too much, am I?

I even broadened my age range on the Bumble app. I’ve been pleasantly surprised to learn that the forty-something-year-old men are still quite attractive. And shockingly, they’ve got their shit together. There are much less of them doing dumb stuff on their profile, although still a fair share.

For instance, to the guy who said in his profile that he lived in Big Bear Lake, are you a fucking merman? I think you meant you live at Big Bear Lake. I get that this is nit-picking, but I’m in the business of words. Just ask my ex-husband, George. He used to say things like, This is taking forever.

Because I’m an asshole, I had to correct him. It’s taken six minutes. Not forever.

It’s an expression, Sarah. People say these things, you know.

Actually, it’s an exaggeration. And only dummies do it.

Ha-ha. You’re so hilarious.

See, again, you don’t mean that, I’d tell him. You know words were invented for a reason and should be used correctly.

And that’s why I can’t date anyone who isn’t educated. Please know how to use your pronouns. And don’t say things like, This is the reason why. That’s repetitive. It’s just, This is the reason. Don’t even get me started on the current popular show by that name. I loathe how we as Americans continue to disregard grammar rules. Also, men, if you say, I’m going to get me a sandwich, then I’m going to assume you have the developmental capacity of a caveman.

Me no want caveman. Me want man who knows that the word me doesn’t belong in that sentence.

The other day, I disqualified a man because he wrote me a long note that was riddled with grammar errors. I think I was being kind, axing him for not knowing the proper use of their and they’re. There were all sorts of other problems I could have dumped him over. For instance, when we spoke on the phone, he told me, I’m off dating really hot girls. They’re just too much work.

When I was silent for several seconds, he said, Why are you so quiet?

The guy, who wasn’t in the business of words apparently, had no idea why I was offended.

I know it sounds judgmental to criticize men for their grammar, but that’s really the least of my problems. On the dating app, men feel the need to say things like, I have a pretty stable life.

That sentence reeks of problems, in my opinion. I’m going to go ahead and pick out your use of the word pretty, which indicates that there are moments of instability in your life. Also, I’m an adult who has the time and inclination to date. Therefore, that should mean that I’m not living on welfare and working six jobs to care for my eight children. If we’re here to match, let’s go ahead and assume we’re both stable people. Please be normal. Please.

I’ve actually quit reading the profiles when swiping. I just go by photos, because honestly, if you pass the picture test, I’ll throw the ball in your court. If we end up matching, then I’ll read your profile. There’s not a lot of time for this swiping business, which is why I only do it when I’m watching television or having a phone date with a guy. Yes, that’s probably not the classiest thing I’ve ever done, but I think of myself as a Human Resource specialist. Time is limited, and most of the applicants aren’t going to make the cut. There’s the preliminary screening, the phone interview, and then the in-person round. Unlike my old days working in HR, I get to drink during the in-person interview, which I’ve found is better for everyone.

I’ve discussed the numerous problems I see in profile pictures, but yet again, this needs to be revisited. For instance, if your face isn’t in the picture, we’ve got serious issues. You think I’m joking, ladies? Do you know how many guys put a photo of one of their legs as their profile picture? And I don’t mean a third leg.

There are just as many men who upload blurry photos. What the fuck is the thinking process there? We live in 2018. Most of us have smartphones. How is it that you take a photo where you look like you’re in a funhouse and say, Yeah, that’s the winner. I’m uploading that shit?

I really can’t stress this next point enough. We get six profile pictures to sell ourselves. The first one needs to be your best. If you’re wearing a mask, then I’m swiping left. That’s a big fat no. It’s like starting your resume off with your first job working at Taco Bell. That’s not really how this works. Best face first.

Also, if you look confused in your profile pictures, then it’s a no. If you are giving me your best I’m terrified look, then it’s a no. Like, I get that everyone in LA is an actor, but I don’t need to see every side of you initially.

And why the fuck does it appear that everyone is trying to land an agent with their profile pictures? I really don’t feel cool enough for school after swiping for an hour. I need more pictures of me on film sets, with fancy headphones on and standing next to Ted Danson. What the fuck is wrong with my life?

This one is an easy fix for most of you. No mustaches. Ever. Just no. Shave it. I will do it for you, but you’ll regret not doing it yourself. I always nick my knee when shaving. Your lip is probably going to be scarred.

Conversely, this one is harder to fix. No man boobs. Sorry. I can’t date men with better boobs than me, or better hair. It is just too weird. Sorry, boys.

If you’re drinking a Moscow Mule on a bike, I’m going to assume you are a hipster. It’s important that I make this disclaimer: Hipsters need not apply. This job has certain requirements, and you fit none of them. Please take your beard and rolled up pants in the opposite direction. I think that that shabby chic bar called the Plugged Nickel is hiring. Why don’t you and your handlebar mustache go work there?

There are so many more things to cover here, but I’ve got to reach out to a certain segment of the LA population. Men,