Los: Dos

Toasts & latte. Very delightful. Very expensive.

Lunch is weird. Does figuring out where you will sit at lunch ever not feel like high school? I pull up a folding chair into the sun. There are vegan hot dogs in the dinner cart. I am confused about how regular things seem. I knock on a closed bathroom stall and hear the voice of PP grumpily respond.

The 2nd AD called lunch, so I walked a block to a cafe. I had this idea of sitting alone with a grant application. In the ten minutes I was eating a fonut (baked donut) I got three emails and needed to make revisions, copies. My insides rattled, I shoved my junk in a bag, and ran back to set. Later, in the van on the way back to crew parking I heard a makeup artist and tech complain about a mistake I had made with the yellow pages. Cowsk assured me no one cared. I can't get it out of my head and google "making mistakes at work" until I fall asleep. I miss the grant deadline.

Any book about movies could be titled "Where Should I Sit." I sit on an awkward stool. I sit in the writer's seat when she's acting. I sit on the floor across from AG. I am hyper aware of Doing Things Right, and I still print something in the wrong direction.

Call is late. Time to run. Time to walk to the v hip cafe for some work and nosh. Two pieces of toast and a Figeroa espresso is $24. I HAVE to learn to check prices here. There's no wifi. I sweat enough to buy a shirt at Forever 21. It has tiny cocktails on it. I change in the car. Everyone is chipper before a three-day weekend. People all over the country would give up their friends and families to do what they do, and everyone doing it just wants an extra day to have the friends and family back. We go late. The producers buy an adorable cafe truck. A cocoa. I think about how millennials are portrayed in film. I don't remember what happens in chunks of time, namely the chunks before bed.

LA proper: bangs cut, three hour vegan donut writing sesh, a tattoo shop that doesn't tow me, hairs waxed, reading in the sunshine. My temporary roommate is making dinner and I soak up his real pro-ness. A meeting that frustrates me (how do you say you are stupid about X without people thinking you're stupid about Y?) see the show I could join if. It's early and it's Friday, but that's all I have. I try Sneaky Pete, eating donut halves in bed.

7:30 AM SoulCycle in Pasadena. I didn't like it, but I miss vigorous workouts. I'll go again. I worry about this car thing a lot. There are a lot of signs and street parkings and meters. It's about 10-20% of my brain at any given time. I plan to write, but I have to lay down and watch Popstar. I watch every credit. I know many of them. I really enjoy it. At the Echo Park cafe literally everyone has Final Draft open. I meet victoriously. It's hot. I'm in shorts. I drive over to Chicago pals with a lemon tree. I keep asking for advice and everyone says they don't have it, but there's pebbles. Again, what do I do with myself? What is left? I treat myself to Thai while I text Puhg, which is a decent date. I spend a long long time in CVS. When I get home, I crack everything open at once and use it. Face scrub, a nail file, glasses cleaner.

I'm too late to church to sing of Easter gladdness. Oatmilk ginger iced chai. One thing SO LA is all the milks. I love all the milks. We have a girl's brunch. I don't have to think about writing or art or anything. We gossip about dating and gyms and I'm in love with this pink tile and the little bit of grunge here, everywhere. I Yelp donuts. I eat donuts (marshmallow peanut butter and cro-muffin). I send out the draft. I apply for a contest. Did I throw my money in a hole? Someone doesn't. Guy from the past invites me to an improv show. It's seedy but I am happy to go and see this dumb (it is very dumb) thing that will be here if I am. I have to go to sleep but I can't. I purposely didn't buy Easter candy all week. I cave, purchase M & M eggs, munch popcorn, watch Crazy Ex Girlfriend, fall asleep reading scary stories.