My new all-lady improv team sees Celeste and Jesse Forever.
I give 4 out of 5 stars and exactly 25 seconds of tears
because love is so hard.
It's 9 PM. We go to an empty park and run two sets.
We're at a middle school sleepover and my character gets her period.
I tell Bug my real menstruation began in 2002. A decade. I remember
at the time my life consisted of Poms practice, Britney's third album,
and preparation for dissecting a dogfish shark.
I looked up at the blue moon
and wondered if I would remember this night when I'm 34.
I still can't believe I'll be alive then.
I was up until 4 AM. I've also kept a diary for a decade,
and it's for nights like these. Decisions were made, self-contracted.
In the morning they were forgotten.
I do what Jillian Michaels tells me. I watch One Tree Hill.
What. It's sentimental. It's fine. I bike to a crummy
taco shop for a breakfast burrito.
Life is so good. Green sauce is so good. Refried beans are so good.
I am playing a troll in a friend's new play reading. It's not humiliating.
I'm young. I'm over it. I like how in a room of theatre people,
someone always starts soft shoe tapping.
And I like walking up and down the aisles at CVS
instead of going to a party. (Parties are a dime a dozen in your 20s.)
And I like coming home to an empty condo
with a brown paper package from Heart on the table.
He made me chocolate cinnamon shortbread cookies. Dinner.
I call a stranger about buying his scooter.
I dab acai clay face mask on.
Complain to my sister on IM about my scooter woes--dramatically.
POOKIE: I want your scoot crisis solved.
ME: MY LIFE IS A JOKE.
POOKIE: It's a funny one though.
And she's right.
I could go to sleep. Or I could stay up texting like a tween.
What. It's fine.
In 2022 I will think this girl is a freaking moron. I just took this picture yesterday, and already kind of think that girl is a moron.
Top down, on the strip.
I'm lookin' in the mirror and I'm checkin' out my lipstick.
