I've been desperate to blog lately, but I just don't have the time. Life for these past six months has simply never let up. I feel like I'm constantly sprinting--zooming through outrageous days at a breakneck speed.
There have been so many moments that fluttered around my head as I was slipping to sleep. "I should write today down," I barely conjure as my head crashes into the pillow. I want to set in stone that Friday I got super sweaty at a guild silent disco, sped home for a shower, attended a fancy girl lunch, blazed through work emails, sat in the hamster playpen at night. Or the day I met with a blind advocacy group at 8:30 AM to develop the new Blind B_rbie and zipped to the picket line and ran into friends and decorated cookies for AP's birthday and motored across town for a listening party and made it to heartbreak dinner with my friend getting divorced and walked home eating pizza from the to-go box, singing Reputation on the empty sidewalk. And I still want to write about my camp reunion and I still want to write about Japan and I still want to write about so so many things.
But for this particular post, what I want to write about is the most Hollywood moment. Two weeks ago I went to my friend's bachelorette party. There was drag brunch and a warm patio and activities and dancing and banners. We played a game called "dirty minds." We got a list of clues that could be construed as sexy, but we were supposed to think of an answer that was bland instead. This game was my jam. The group happened to be very industry-heavy. When the host announced I had won an exec across the circle shouted, "That's not fair! She's a writer! She's supposed to be on strike!" The agent chimed in, "Fine, she can win, but I get ten percent of her points." I thumbed over to my actual manager and said, "Actually, she does."
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