Last November, after a string of relationships with men had gone wrong, I decided to go to Los Angeles for a few months to try to fulfil my lifelong dream of having sex with an A-list celebrity. I have romanticised LA ever since, aged 14, I stumbled across that pinnacle of reality TV, The Hills. I fell in love with the idea of this star-studded city; a place where everyone can do a headstand, no one drinks wine at lunch, and it is totally normal to drive your car while outrageously stoned.
The first time I visited LA, I went to Lady Gaga’s house. The second time, I danced with Drake’s dad in a club in west Hollywood. On this third visit, I stayed with my best friend in her family’s pool house, and the A-lister in my sights was Cousin Greg from Succession.
