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LABELED: Remember my Name by Aria Morgan

I moved to Los Angeles, California, specifically Hollywood, in 2010. I grew up in the suburbs of New York and always dreamed of moving to California. After I graduated college, I first gave Brooklyn a whirl, but that turned out to be a nightmare. Whoever said Brooklyn is cool must have been cracked out. It's not cool, sorry. This is coming form a person who has a personal bias against hipsters because I have been surrounded by them for too long. And really I'm just talking about the parts that everyone refers to as up and coming. It's not up and coming. Either it's up or it's not up…it certainly was not up.

So quickly I decided to move home and save up some cash to move to LA. Fast-forward 8 months and here I was. I moved into an apartment with an aspiring writer who seemed to have her shit together. The apartment was old, a little dirty, but nothing compared to the Sorority house nonsense I've had to endure over the years, so it felt peaceful and undisruptive.

The area was great. I moved to Los Feliz because I was told that it was the Brooklyn of LA. Why that sounded appealing to me at the time is beyond me, but luckily it worked out. I really enjoyed the girl I was living with and found her to be really hysterical. Humor and style are pretty much my two favorite things and I think she had both covered. One night she invited me out to go drinking with her and a few of her friends so I decided to tag along. I called my best friend for reinforcements, and luckily this was the time in her life she was still willing to go out.

We met at my roommate’s friend’s apartment first, although we never went in. That whole portion of the evening confused me which is ironic because I was still sober. Her friend has a sister and they both have matching Porsches. This, of course, is where my animosity towards Los Angeles-bred girls begins. Yes, she had a great job and worked her ass off (or so she said), but she was the same age as me, and owning a condo and a Porsche at 25 without help from the parental payroll just doesn't seem possible. Hey, if my parents had it, I'd take it, so more power to you. But, it doesn't mean it's not pissing me off.

After leaving her apartment we headed towards the bar. It was pretty swanky, we had been there a few times before, but on this night there were actually good looking people there. I walked in rather confident. It was a skinny portion of my life since I had just recently moved to Los Angeles. I hadn't had time to sit around being bored and hungry yet. I had just left my parents home, which was basically like living in a cleansing center. I had no social life for a year so that meant, gym and healthy food non-stop. If only I could continue that here. So, I was feeling confident. My hair was perfect, my outfit was killer and I was able to walk in heels like a runway model that night so everything was in my favor.

I walked around the bar scoping out the crowd and ended up locking eyes with a very tall, mildly dark, extremely handsome man. When I say handsome, I mean handsome. He was one of those guys you couldn't just call hot or cute. He was just handsome. So good looking he went across the board and was just everyone’s type.

His name was Doug. He was a writer and he was from LA. Bad, bad, worse.

All I could do was stare into his dark brown eyes that were peering down at me from about a foot above. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, sexier than a tall man. I refuse to date men under 6 feet; they just give me the creeps. We made basic conversation and I stood there googly-eyed and drunk trying to look cute while slurring over my words. I eventually walked away to sit at my friends table to see if he'd come over to me. It worked, and my friend told me to go home with him before I missed the opportunity, so out I went.

We got back to his place and the rest is really a blur. I woke up the next morning, luckily still next to a hot guy and he asked me if I wanted to grab some breakfast. Okay, well, that was a plus. I figured he was somewhat dateable since he didn't ditch me the first chance he got.

We went to breakfast and he ended up lending me a pair of women's flip-flops that he happened to have in his closet. This should have been a red flag. I was partially weirded out by it, but was still pretty drunk and way too hungry to care. We had breakfast and got to know each other in a slightly more sober state. Towards the end of the meal I began to realize I didn't remember his name. I sat there trying to recount the moment from the bar where he had introduced himself. I stared at him, trying not to look crazy while paying attention to the conversation all the while trying to jog my memory of this beautiful man’s name. Blank, nothing, nada. I was absolutely clueless as to what to call him when I got out of the car. I figured I could just say bye, but eventually, if this was to go somewhere, I would need to find out.

We walked towards his car and when he wasn't paying attention I texted my best friend.

Me: I slept with a hot black guy last night, I think, but I can't remember his name

Her: Ask him to see his license as a joke

When we got to my apartment building I tried to think of a way I could ask to see his license. Of course, the drive was only about two minutes from the restaurant, so I really had no time to think. So as I got out I turned around and did the only thing that popped into my head.

"You don't even know my name do you?"

AH, so slick. Trying to play it off like I’m too fucking cool to care, but secretly trying to make him look like an idiot.

"Uh, yea I do…Aria. But you don't know mine do you?"

I stood there stunned. Well, there goes my plan, and now I'm caught. I waited to see if he'd at least find humor in this. If he didn't, we weren't meant to be.

He smiled and said, “You'll have to wait and see.” I laughed and waved goodbye as he pulled away.

Two minutes later I got a text.

"It's Doug. Remember my name because you'll be screaming it later."

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