If I had to describe 2024 in one word, I think I'd choose "stuffed." I swear I've lived so many years in this one. Like some kind of hot pocket. Only instead of broccoli cheddar I microwaved a steaming square of winter, spring, summer, fall.
January was like a sunny snow globe. I spent a lot of mornings in cafes writing my novella. Mostly I was alone, but my schedule was so consistent when friends would text “we should catch up!” I’d say, “well I’ll be sitting in this exact seat with half an iced oat latte for the next five hours if you’re free now.” And often, they would be. In the afternoons I’d do tedious administrative tasks and write my Toy Conglomerate series. I went to the movies all the time with Puhg and also with myself. I scurried around Los Angeles for a solid month finding the final theatre showings of Eras. I’d usually pre-order cinnamon pretzel bites and an XL Mr. Pibb.
February felt so exciting. A month of being at Marv’s house for a dinner party then jetting to NYC for Galas and truly life-changing shows. Sipping Shirleys in the lobby with my mother and hoofing around Central Park and chuckling with my high school bff and going backstage to hug TF and AP and seeing my old pink friend and my first editor. Finally caught Covid, but I recovered just in time for a magical Arizona getaway to see Olivia Rodrigo with my sister and meet Shells’ baby. Conglomerate hired me for a couple commercials, and it was revealed, I am their most prized writer. How to leverage that, working on it.
March was unpleasant. I’ll be the first to admit. Deals fell apart, execs waffled, bosses bossed, bosses didn’t boss. We went to a wedding in Ojai for people I didn’t know, and I danced with the force of a million angsty teen girls to "Mr. Brightside.” I posted up by the dessert table and ate every single petit fours. I was so moody Puhg and I whisked off to Mexico, where we ate the most delicious tacos and swam in the incredible sparkling pool and got upgraded to a condo, which was honestly too big. But it did come with its own little waterfall, which I goofed in for hours and hours in between reading a dumb book I bought off TikTok about not believing everything you think.
At the last minute we decided to see to the total eclipse. The nearest city was Dallas, and the flights were horribly expensive, but we couldn’t stop bringing it up—a sign. What an incredible feast it was. Got to see summer camp friends and walk around that One Cool Area and eat fresh bagels and I had the sudden idea to send a copy of my manuscript to my old English professor, who gave me very helpful notes.
I spent most of April running logistics for my book. I was irritated often and at least once a day deep in a pit of gripes about some shipping issue or flakey talent. Or maybe I was just, generally, completely overwhelmed by my own cringe. My sister visited for one day and we almost went to a bakery to write but last minute went to Universal Studios instead. Oh god, we had fun. Trotted around the Mario Land of the late 90s and both stood, cheered, screamed for the Waterworld Live Show, an image of which I just rubber cemented onto the top of my 2025 dream board.
The book events were incredibly special, and I’m immensely proud I got her in four stores. Around fifty people came, and I made a connection with each one. I made hundreds of rainbow cookies and we all sang acoustic “Cruel Summer” in an art gallery, to get back to what I was saying about cringe. I wrote an essay about it. I wrote another essay about confidence. I wrote another essay about consciousness and 22 essays about the Future.
Two jobs came up that I didn’t know if I wanted. I applied, which wasn’t unfunny, and didn’t get either. But unlike the Alice of 2018 or even 2022, I didn’t really care. It happens more often than not now, that I am relieved when I am rejected from a windfall of cash. Maybe I’m meant to be saying other things. In the meantime I get hired to write a TikTok, which goes massively viral in 48-hours, and brings 20K followers to the company. I am begged to page-one revise a M*nster H*gh commercial and punch up a pilot for Marv.
I finished out the project I once loved that turned into a project I resented, and we never said goodbye. I stood up for myself and was invisibly punished for it. I wrote about that too. I listened to TTPD four million times.
My other play broke my heart a million times over. I have cried so many tears over this stack of paper. Once I couldn’t even stand up I was so devastated. Laid on the ground letting the ache out, clutched at chair legs. I worried I had developed some intense disease or might need jaw surgery. Puhg told me I’d been chewing in the night, and I couldn’t speak freely anymore. Once I dissolved the fancy contract all the pain vanished. I tell Shan about it and she says, “The body keeps the score.”
Shan was a big character in 2024. So were Seline and Grief as always. One is fun and the other meets me in reality. The group watches Survivor less often, but still. I do a handful or improv shows—one an all-time favorite, with LA. It feels incredible to finally be here: I don’t need to rehearse or plan to crush. But then I get shut out of another show (a free late show that does not matter AT ALL) and I am so mad I stomp out of the theatre early.
I’m terribly embarrassed about how insane I feel on my birthday. I pick at myself, almost until I bleed, but then I have a little gathering on the side patio instead. I wear my white cowboy boots and bring the gals smol gifts I found just for them. A banana clip or socks or cherry earrings or a Japanese surprise ball.
I decide to make a commitment to Pride for June, I tell Grief. Nik and I go to the comedy theatre to see the queer ensemble and get ice cream after. I go to my first Dyke Day, which is the most organized, respectful adventure. I watch a Drag King perform “Blank Space” in the blazing heat and sit on a blanket as the entire world chants HOT TO GO. I split a cab there with Jordy and we, against all odds, end up on the sidewalk leaving together. Rain and I go for Mexican and get into it. “How did you get out of it?” I ask her, and she explains she had to rot. I try it that weekend, “rotting.” It works! For some reason, I recognize, it’s easier for me to rot than relax. Both can even look like laying in bed watching TV. But for some reason, the rot resonates and the rest doesn’t.
The turning point may have been the pool. The going every day. I let the wind blow me, and it blew me into writing with an iconic comedian and mentoring the girlies and analyzing (in depth) concert livestreams. I like being in the pool group: the two-toddler fam, the immigrant teens, the one chubby older man, and the guy my age who always brought a small hot coffee and old headphones.
My sister and mom visited, and we crammed eversomuch into one weekend! The woodland stand and facials and beach and Twister, followed by Twisters plural. I remember my mom holding my paw when the aunt tells Helen Hunt to keep working on Dorothy. “You’ve been chasing these things since you were a little kid. It’s what you do. Go, do it.”
The summer fun is fun. Bleachers and Joyce Manor at The Greek. Going to the waterpark and watching the Olympics at the movie theatre on a weekday morning, only stepping out to take a call from my theatre lawyer. The night Puhg lost his job we went to the pizza shop and I gave him a card with a shrimp on it. The day he started his new gig last month we went to our main haunt and I left a bright blue note on the table. There was that Sunday morning I posted up tapping away on god knows what by the bookshop, so I could drop off another sticker stack, and I see no fewer than six improvisers swing through. I take these opportunities to encourage them. I’ve spent a long time being ashamed I want to change the world with my art. Seems narcissistic. But I finally understand the truth: I want everyone to change the world with their art. Before I go to Illinois I pull off some kind of collaborative magic and start working with AB, it’s decided, on a Saturday night over clinked pink grapefruit while she is dolled up for the Emmys and I have secretly just slammed a whole plate of nachos.
The Prairie State is full of memories and long walks around the river and hot pink sunsets and a hike up to Starved Rock and tea at the Drake and bagels and art and a party, with just the cream, I think. I love all my lives and also don’t miss a single one. When I get back to California, I find a new therapist. I love her office, behind a red oval door, near a citrus tree.
It happened slowly, but I communicate like a true professional. I have excellent boundaries and don’t accept just any job offer. I don’t follow up with people anymore either. It’s too clear an indication of the rest of time, I have learned. You can burn your pitch decks.
There were two Arizona trips—one for Mothers’ Day. We have brunch and go to Nordstrom Rack. Kale and I have dinner at Cornish and she says, too seriously after a year of applying to hundreds of jobs, “I’m so glad my mom is dead so she doesn’t have to see what a failure her daughter is.” By the time we return in December for Puhg’s dad’s birthday, she has the best job she’s ever had. Far far better than any of the others she tried to get.
In September we went to Washington to stand in the quietest spot of moss and marvel at the old red sign. We saw the film festival shorts twice and enjoyed them more the second time? The gang went to Applebee’s and visited the high school movie set. I blasted Letters to Cleo while we turned the corner. Everyone was out of their gourds at dinner, the waiter gave us separate checks. Puhg got a truck and returned it. One of our favorite mornings of the year we got up before dawn to hit the drive-thru of Mochamotion, listened to all of Red TV on the long leaf-lined roads. Beach exploration and musing about Twilight and finally a sunny veggie burger, a seagull joined us. We laugh our heads off over fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, fool me five times you’ve fallen into my trap.
October was simply the best. Maine for the wackiest little gig in a beautiful little house alone, and then with my sweet family. I am empowered by this $800 gig. I sing my heart out to hundreds of people each night, pretending to be a fire-starting teen or a crossing guard or a haunted old woman. My mom and I drive to a tiny town and eat fiddleheads. My sister and her husband and I have blueberry pie. It feels so funny and wonderful to see them in the same shops I used to buzz around back when I was 26. Puhg and I get maple cold brews on the way to the airport. It’s a ten minute drive. AND THEN I GO TO NEW ORLEANS FOR ERAS. A top weekend of my entire life! HITS DIFFERENT. Super super, that’s what we are.
In November my reality collapsed, I led women’s groups, got pneumonia, and somehow went for a last swim. Henne hosted me in NYC, where I did nothing but cough in the shower and guzzle emergen-c. That’s not true--I also saw Stereophonic, which I loved, from the very back corner of the balcony, surrounded by Hall’s wrappers. The play workshop renewed my belief in myself and humanity! All 16 students impress and stamp on me. My director met with me a few days ago, at the spot with mirrored halls and incredible hand pies. We are going to make it happen, she keeps assuring under the winter sun. For Thanksgiving we made a vegan loaf.
December threatened me! Too much to do, but the bow was a long and beautiful Christmas. Tattoos, chocolate oranges, sits by the pool, Little Dom’s salad, names from a Tupperware, a hill scramble at golden hour, Puhg’s pancake birthday and later vegan hot dogs. I get overwhelmed and say, I’m sorry it’s hard to love me. My sister explains it’s not hard to love me but hard to support. “Amen,” Alice Sr. chimes.
What am I missing? (You see what I mean about “stuffed”?) OH GOD SWEET POTATO. The ever present lump who used to keep me up late chewing, who now resides so deeply in a shavings pile I will actually reorganize my entire morning around her sniffing snoot if needed! She is smart and she is fuzzy and she smells like the forest.
Our building manager passed away, and I still can't believe it. I don't want to take any more people for granted. She always called me "sweetheart."
I’ll need more time to think about all my favorite art of the year. Off the dome: Problemista and Perfect Days and Chappell and Sabrina and Wicked and Still Mad and OH MARY. Photo finish, one of my favorite arts of the year was Once Upon a Mattress with Sutton and Ana. It’s rare you know you’re in the presence of a genius geniusing. I’ve been blessed to see it many times in this one itty bitty life. Maybe that’s my purpose, to be a mouse near lions.
Today I wrote this blog post at the cafe, had a waffle (it’s a holiday, I screamed at the barista), and attended a sound bath. On my intention card I wrote I’d like to leave “control” behind and bring “lightness” into the new year. I got two (!) vaccinations yesterday, with no side effects. Talked with my sister and mom about resolutions, texted with my dad about Bob Dylan. I’ve sent mail and organized the bookshelf and paid my last bills and did the math on my spreadsheet. I wrote 930 hours and produced 1242 hours. That shakes out to about 17 hours of writing and 23 hours of producing per week, with no weeks off. I made 65k.
I finished the first draft of my newest play on December 23rd, 2024! I will begin revisions on January 2nd! I am so confused and terrified about the year ahead! I have few resolutions and fewer goals! But I will! Be doing a reading! Of this play!
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