We met on a Sunday

Mother took me to a garden party somewhere off Mulholland once. I was eleven and left alone on a polished lawn full of platinum blondes in pastel colored cocktail dresses and their copycat daughters (no boys). Sort of like a barnyard with a better smell.

One of them wouldn't shut up about the newly opened American H&M stores, as if it was a major fashion happening. "Look" she said, flashing an ill-fitting jacket made of something close to burlap. "It looks like Chanel but is twenty times cheaper". Everyone gathered around her like a flock of hens except for one girl who snuck up behind her like a 4"6' Audrey Hepburn style ninja and pushed her into the swimming pool.

Someone told me that girl's name was Chloe. I talked to her. We've been at war with the world ever since.