Life is the longest death in California...

Maybe it's fitting that I'm going to work for an entertainment company--my life has the tendency to resemble a bad sitcom. To wit:

SCENE: Junior year, second semester. RACHEL is talking to a friend in the dining hall.
RACHEL: I'll say this much: there is absolutely, positively, one hundred percent NO WAY I'm going to live in LA.
HARD CUT to RACHEL, a year older and a year wiser, surrounded by stacks of boxes in front of a couple of palm trees and the Hollywood sign. Music sting.
RACHEL: I can't believe I'm going to live in LA.
Canned laughter.

Seriously, folks. If there's one thing I learned in college, it's that Southern California is not the place for me. I like the weather, the music scene and the Mexican food, but all the sun and indie bands and tacos in the world can't make up for the traffic, the urban sprawl and the fake boobs. Mostly, I can't stand the thought of buying a car--one of my friends got into a pretty serious car accident the other day, so now in addition to worrying about high gas/insurance costs, endless traffic jams and the toll on the environment, I've been worrying about getting killed.
So why am I doing this? I'm doing it so I can learn as much as I can about music supervision and film scoring, gain that valuable industry experience, maybe even contribute to American pop culture in some positive way. I already know I like working at NWE, and I imagine being able to commute by car instead of dealing with unreliable public transit will only make things more enjoyable.
But will it last? Can I make it in the entertainment industry before the city beats me into submission? Or will I go broke and turn into one of those homeless crazy people who walk around Skid Row mumbling to themselves?

I can't believe I'm going to live in LA.