cannot today

Thinking about Yatchface today. There are those things people say that become scripture somehow. The person who said the thing might not even recognize its gold like you do. It may be up to you to carry on the message. The person who said it, just a mouth, just the previous leg of the Olympic torch.

Yatchface was my roommate for our final term of school (with Grinz). One afternoon while working on her capstone paper, Yatchface closed her computer and announced, "I simply cannot!" I thought it was so hilarious. Because, like, yes she could certainly finish her revisions. She was wrapped in her messy bed with her messy hair and had nothing else to do. But also, she simply should not. How could anyone disagree?

I've often empathized with "simply cannot" but I don't know if I've ever actually lived the motto full send. I worked for Conglomerate for five years and never missed a deadline or even asked for an extension. Grill workers got one freebie "no show" before being written up. I knew this and held tight to mine all four years of college, cashed it in with a month of school left, when I was in bed crying. I'd cried in bed before my 8 AM shift many times, but I'd never gotten to prioritize my own emotions over slicing tomatoes before. The only time I ever showed up not 100% prepared for a speech tournament I bungled my first round and begged my coach to let me drop from the whole thing. She made me stay in the running, reminding me it's okay, normal even, to compete and not win. Maybe I could experience being average for once. I agreed, but that night I ran my piece over and over and over and in the morning I got perfect marks, squeaked into semis, then finals, then won. My coach got on the bus to see me holding my trophy. "You were supposed to learn a lesson!" she said, only kind of kidding.

So this, today, is a different level of simply cannot. I really, lately, simply cannot. On a puff of smoke level on a what are we all doing it's all made up level on a I don't know if I'm supposed to keep cleaning out my closet to stay nimble or hoard these sweaters for the colder winters level. Do I go to a place or never go to a place?

Projects keeps vanishing and the money goes with them. No one apologizes. Jobs are down, jobs are down, jobs are down, gas is up, gas is up, gas is up. This week the president said he'd be out of the White House in 8 or 9 years and no one interrupted him.

I've gotten nothing but brilliant signs from the universe I am on the right path with my plays. Doors keep opening and meaning keeps spilling out. The actor's brother died, and she insists, she's going on anyway in his honor. The new producer believes in the message so much he created a group chat for us. The activist writes me, "You're the best!"

But the work has never been tougher on me. My tasks this morning, for example, include organizing the casting tapes for one production and emailing the director my callback preferences for another. Making a promotional video, checking flights, script feedback. I've got to drive out to Venice tonight for a tech rehearsal. I should be eager to do all these tasks. But there's this force that won't let me do any of it. It's more than discomfort, it's certainly beyond laziness, it's Wrong. Something is Wrong. I felt this way the day before the fires, when I suddenly had the urge to go to the movies alone.

I struggle to pretend as much as I used to. But no one likes me when I'm not pretending. I used to be able to disappear for a few hours and come back ready to dazzle. Now it takes days, maybe weeks, to be remotely palatable. Friends don't reach out as much, and I did that. It wasn't my plan, but the person they're looking for doesn't live here anymore.

Anyway, that's why I'm writing this morning. It often feels like I can't count on anything in this world, but I can count on writing. No matter what happens I can write about it. Maybe I can write through it. Missing my hamster so much I could disintegrate.

mid pizza and Diet Cokes

Told K Ho, when she picked me up for lunch, I can't believe I said yes to this. Had essentially no idea what the process would entail or what the theatre would look like or even how I'd get around. I just trusted I'd figure it out. Although I don't often trust myself to figure things out, I am a good pilot for a weird little arts program. One could argue my whole life is but a collection of cobbled together weird little arts programs. I remember talking about it with a peer from grad school once. (Oh I'm sure I gave him a cute little blog nickname twelve years ago, but god help me if I can remember those anymore. I should have made a key. But I didn't. So now if I ever look back in my archives here I have to scratch my chin and whisper soto, "Interesting memory...but who is 'Frazzykins?'")

Anyway, I had reached out to this peer, AC, after I saw they were abroad teaching acting workshops. They were like, "Mostly did it for the grant money, but it's been really cool." And ain't that the way. I have all kinds of stupid things on my art/work resume because I've never not been grubbing for money. But almost all those stupid things ended up being incredible memories. And, yeah, I guess if I'd been in the position to do other things with my time, maybe those other things could have been incredible memories too. But, I kinda don't think so.

I've been cornered into non-self serving experiences, and that's been really special for me. And important to my voice. Maybe necessary to my voice. Maybe my voice refused to sing in places privilege would have sent me. I wouldn't have picked to teach a musical theatre camp for 5th graders when I was 28, but I was desperate, and I still think about funny things those girls did, realizations we all had together. I wonder if any of them thought about our Newsies history lesson while the writers' strike was national news.

Had to go to Maine to teach improv to seniors for a week right before moving to LA. Horrible timing, but the gig was for $800--money I'd need to sustain myself until I landed something in my new city. Was I irritated to be going? Yes. Do I still think fondly about doing comedy with elderly women, one who was blind?! YES!

I've done gigs for hospice patients and fried eggs and stuffed bears and worn a mascot costume and crafted banana splits and sliced ham and proctored exams for people who couldn't hold pencils and led comma seminars and coached speech club and fired guns and shot arrows and instructed drama games and counseled preteens through their relationship with god and taught teens on the South Side playwriting with the time I wanted so much for my own plays. I worked on a cruise ship. None of this is what I wanted, but I would never trade any of it now.

So doing a play workshop in Virginia for $300? Sign me right up. I took a redeye, got in at 6 AM. The director picked me up in pjs. The theatre was only 20 minutes away. An adorable little spot with a maroon awning in a strip mall. Right away, I liked it.

Director let me in the scene shop. There was a sketchy yellow couch and a sad rainbow afghan. I don't remember much else until I woke with a start at about 9. I wandered, shoeless into the lobby, where the whole staff was having a meeting. The executive director hopped up and pointed me toward the hotel.

I felt half-human and wobbled over, through a little dirt path between the trees. The desk guy told me my room wasn't ready, so I flopped in the lobby, greasy and ripe. A little before noon my shower dream died, so I changed my t-shirt and put on deodorant in the bathroom. My old high school bestie picked me up in this state. All par for the course. We got mid pizza and Diet Cokes. It was so easy to talk about the people we know and how things have been and especially, if there's a nuke, run into it. She said I seemed the same, and I said, ah that's nice but my soul's been broken, just a little.

I was able to clean up, in ten minutes flat, right before my first rehearsal. I rushed in right on time, to find my script in a binder at the table. At the spot labeled "playwright."

musicals on the spot pt II

Wanted to keep my word and finish the story I'd begun last month. I'm sure I've forgotten some details. My brain has been scrambled all April. Six planes, at least three work disasters, and a couple big surprises around my play productions--one good surprise, one bad surprise.

I'm supposed to be revising a draft right now, but my brain is too fried with all the Phone Things I had to do today. Promo posts on Instagram, a billion casting emails, personal texts that are important but may as well be sent from Pluto, disbelief it's almost May.

Sometimes reading a book and clacking on something completely different can get my mind back on track to actually write. When I woke up my goal was revising three scenes. But that was before the digital onslaught. Left for the cafe an hour late. Saw two girls from my building on my way. They were sipping coffee on the steps of the Scientology center. I told them my goal was revising two scenes. But there were a lot of DMs to answer and Zooms to set and texts about the show I dramaturged, up this Wednesday. So now my goal is one scene. But first, more about musicals on the spot.

Because I was slotted to do the improvised rap musical on Monday, I listened to Hamilton all week. Driving, in the shower, walking around town. To be honest it felt wrong. It's a genius show, and I still love it, but there's a significant cringeness to it now. The patriotism tastes rotten. The celebration of a money guy feels bizarre. And all the (brilliant) music time travels me to 2016. And 2016 makes me think of the orange clown.

But still! I needed the immersion. I walked to the theatre around 6, spitting out "Non-Stop." I arrived to find our beatboxer in the green room. We'd never worked together, so we shook hands. He introduced me to his cousin. Musicians are funny that way. It's kinda weird for a comedian to randomly bring a cousin or "a guy" backstage, but it's totally normal for the band.

The rest of the cast arrives. AW telling me she's been super busy with a play, JH ripping on AW, ZN is writing for a new tv show. I love the show runners and tell him so. RB admits quietly, he auditioned for them before. Close but didn't clinch it. I ask is he's a dweller or a forgetter. He says he thinks about the future more than the past. But he also laughs in a certain way.

Then I meet DD! He seems professional and nice. We've emailed about the opening choreography, the only preplanned bit in the show. We spend about two minutes small talking and exchanging Chicago names. And then! The last show (running very late) ends. On the heels of the applause we rush to the stage. We have five minutes before doors open for us. We forgo warm-ups for a single practice of the choreography, which I flub big time. I tell the group I'll get for showtime. I drink a lime La Croix, we cypher about the heat for ten or so, and then the stage manager knocks. I breathe backstage, trying to unclench my everything. This is the first time this group of people have ever been in the same room, and we're about to perform a fully improvised rap musical together. And one of us hasn't done that in six years.

The show is very good! The audience chooses our subject to be Pennywise from the book IT. Totally nuts. I play two side characters (Pennywise's mother and Finn Wolfhard) to ease back into free styling. But I hold my own. If I may brag, I crush a particular group song based on that weird part of the story where all the teens sleep together to impress a turtle god. (Not in the movie, wonder why.) I also do nail the opening choreo. I laugh a lot, sometimes you just can't help it.

We do a scant recap post-show because the next cast is creeping in. I change out of my khakis into shorts. I exit the side way to be met by a group of four 20somethings. They go quiet when I pass then one squeaks, "YOUWERESOGOOD." I turn around and say thank you, ask if they do improv. They do of course. I round the corner into the main crowd spilled onto the sidewalk. A few people reach out to nod, to say, "wow I loved you guys!"

Just as I think I'm out of the woods, I see the beatboxer and his cousin. They'd kept to themselves comparing new hip hop albums before the show. But now we've all made a thing together. The man, who I suddenly realize is quite large, wraps me in a giant hug. His cousin hops up and down, "You killed it!" I look up at the beatboxer, "No you!" I say.

I trot home thinking about how me ten years ago would never believe I would be booked on the sold out 7 PM show at the hottest comedy theatre in LA. Also pretty wild it was all based on a book I read in middle school in a cabin in Wisconsin. Life is strange.

no fooling

Yesterday was such a lovely day of my little life, it's 6:25 am now. I'm at the table looking out the balcony doors. The sun is rising, so every moment there's a new pink or baby blue bursting from the clouds over the palm trees. I've been up since 4:30 with the insomnia. Just got out of the shower. I hope to settle after this.

First thing was I had to go to the DMV. And of course, this was not lovely, but the entire ordeal took under three hours and I planned for five so. I had to get my license renewed in person, which really steamed my clams if we're being honest around here. I applied online, but a a pop-up appeared--I'd need to visit an office. I tried two more times, kind of in disbelief.

Last Thursday I took the morning off work and vroomed over there at open. I was 20th in line, then realized I had forgotten my wallet! Of all things to accidentally leave in a different person on all of the mornings. I drove back home, returned, got a new number: 20th. When I was 8th every computer in the system shut down. Twenty minutes later the staff announced it might be three hours to wait. I beat myself up for the wallet thing. I went home in a terrible mood. Later Puhg and I had burritos at the tin shack. "Mostly for your mental health," he said, practically running a handkerchief across his brow.

Anyway, yesterday's excursion was even more eventful. The ticketing system was broken. There was a long winding in-person line. I became emotionally tied to a very elderly Japanese man who couldn't stand for long. I finally got to see Deb, who wore zero percent of a smile and a face mask, around her chin.

Deb started doing "the usual" and then had to stop and be like, "Did you get any notifications about your renewal...?" She was dumbfounded. I was like, "An email to apply online, but online application kept getting rejected." She clacked away at her computer. I asked if something was wrong. She snapped, "Nothing's wrong. It's just... Why you gotta take a test?" She clacked longer. I stood silently for about ten minutes. Finally she seemed to give up and printed stuff and told me to get my photo taken, which I did not want to do. I actually like my license photo. She told me because I had opted to renew in person I had to take a new photo.

Even though there was no reason (I scoured the website) I should have needed to take a driving test because this kind of weird thing happens to me a lot, I actually studied for said test while I was waiting in line. I did all four of the practice tests and actually thank goodness I did because I would probably have failed otherwise. There's so many things we know but not if phrased a certain way. Like how many feet away should you lower your high beams if you see an approaching vehicle? I go into the little computer room and pass quickly. I hear the security guard guy tell a man, "I'm so proud of you." (You can fail the test twice, third time was the charm.")

I left by 10, spending a little time in the car to Marco Polo with Dizz and Lav. There's drama about a bachelorette party costs increasing for surprise hibachi dinners. My new photo is not as good, but it's not bad at all. I wonder if I'm on a list or something.

I chattered with Puhg. He'd brought me a coffee at 8:20, the angel. Made my journey all the sweeter. I laid down and watched the rest of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, which we'd started the night before. I'm proud of myself for growth in this area. I know what kind of activities are prone to overwhelm me, and I try to pack a buffer around them to decompress. In that wretched DMV lighting I could close my eyes and imagine the softness of my bed, a big cup of water beside me, Pee Wee's face huge on the wall.

I sent an email to the non-profit about the show. I made notes in my journal about my hopes and fears about this new possible manager. Because I'd already cleared through lunch, I realized I had enough time to sneak to the salon for a mani pedi. I pointed to the color I'd like. "Barbie pink," the gal said. I decided not to listen to music and just let the women's discussions I could not understand drown out my thoughts.

My nails looked perfect. I had a half hour before my meeting to hop to the store. I'd rushed past Amnesty International on my way to my appointment muttering, "Can't now." I'll tell you what they CAUGHT ME, STROLLING like practically skipping down the street. The girl asked, "...Do you have time now?' And so obviously I did. Anyway now I'm a member of Amnesty International.

I got to my patio five minutes early, scuttled into the bathroom to brush my hair. I went with grey sweatshorts, a crop tank, and my hoodie from my old comedy theatre. My favorite spot in LA, and they had my favorite cake. Maybe manager walks in and we small talk in line (torture). He gets pecan pie and orange juice. I get aforementioned cake and an Italian soda. The barista asks my name because he sees me there a lot. We do a cute formal greeting.

My favorite table is free! I almost don't take it (why) then do. I tell mm that I watched one of his favorite movies last night as an investment in him, since I know he is prepared to invest in me. We talk about how the film is so camp and fun though confusing now. I admire its ability to express joy around class and race, while being an inherently queer story too.

I read through my list of concerns and my list of What I'm Looking For. He responds and volleys to each. I feel at ease with this person even though he's a guy. We talk about that too, how Sarah McLaughlin had male managers on Lilith Fair. Everything feels just about right. I tell him just tell me if I'm acting strange. I simply have no idea. Just tell me. That's the thesis to working with me: just tell me. At one point I open my palm to make a point and a leaf falls right into it.

We shake hands, and once it's done he's asking how things are moving with my animated movie. I mumble around how we pitched something and are sending materials soon and he sort of nods and then offers he has clients who can do character design. I say we have an artist, and apparently he's cool but I don't know about comics. mm practically falls off his bench, "he created !!!!" he says, "bury the lead!" I'd been yapping about how excited I am for this movie's environmental messaging. But this is what I've been saying, I stress, I am good at the show and not at the business. He hugs me and says, "This is exactly how I wanted this to go."

I tell Puhg when I come home: I signed with a new manager at a top company while wearing my comfy clothes and eating Heath Bar cake! I DID IT!

Okay so now it's 6:05 pm. I'm at a Mexican restaurant on the west side. I just had four street tacos for $10 while wrapping up emails for the day. First rehearsal for the indie production of my play is tonight, had to drive her very early to beat traffic.

So more about yesterday though. I journaled for a bit then trucked home to write a political letter about the mergers and how they are destroying free speech, it's really that simple. I tidied up the dang place before watching my sister's church service. She has become a reader, which is very significant!

Emailed a lot about the poster. Texted the chuckleheads on slack about the movie pitch deck. Ate some goat cheese and crackers and then took a producing call about the budget and communications. My collaborator said, "You handle conflict so well, and I really learn a lot from watching." I am quite proud to hear this. Handling conflict has become one of my great loves.

Finally I had to be done. The moon rose as I sat on the balcony decompressing. It became so bright and shiny. Had the rest of my huge Heath cake slice while watching Pluribus. Fell asleep on Puhg, woke up around 4, you know the rest...

musicals on the spot

I was booked to play the improvised rap musical Friday. Hadn't played that one in six years. Almost exactly, actually. I remember my last show--well, even. The audience gave us HH Holmes, the Chicago murder house guy. It was International Women's Day, which Jia and I found very funny. Our opening number chorus was, "Welcome in, welcome in, welcome Holmes" and we formed a spooky house with our bodies. Dumpling, who played the lead, leaned out the middle, beckoning inside...

I remember leaving that set in such a good mood that I decided to trot the hour home. I didn't do that often because Ubers were still $6 back then. I took a photo with a string of green traffic lights behind me. "Something is coming," I remember thinking, knowing. And it was! Four days later I went into lockdown and there I stayed for a year and change.

I have a particular relationship with improv. One of my old teammates on the hot Saturday slot at i_ once explained to me, "I've ruined improv for myself. I don't regret. I had to ruin it." He meant, basically, he became obsessed with the art form as a teenager, and chased that obsession to Chicago, and chased that obsession throughout the city, and now it's his full-time job (podcaster). But, he'll be the first to say, I hate improv shows. Comedians are so weird. Some really do despise what we do. Not me.

I don't hate comedy. I love comedy. I also don't hate improv, though I know I am supposed to think it's cringe. I mean, it is cringe but it's also essential. Now me myself doing improv? Harder to say...

I actually don't think I've ever loved improv. I've loved journeying through improv. My college family-friendly group and my grad crew and my indie girls and that weird Missouri "theatre" and all the spots in the windy city and my one class at the boxed wig school and my shows in Scotland and my nights at U__ the first and U__ the second.

There is a ton of unfairness in the artist life, but I'll tell you one major win from the universe on my scorecard is getting to perform at U__. That's the prime comedy theatre in LA. Usually comedy folk move to new cities and have an incredibly frustrating time breaking in. It's a tale as old as time, really. You spend years building up your style and your skill and your reputation--! And then you have to buzz around getting hundreds of people on board all over again. Meanwhile the comedians who have been in the pool immediately kinda hate you for being a maybe threat. The gatekeepers are sometimes overjoyed, like, look, this fully cooked casserole has appeared at our potluck! I remember a moment like this when I moved to Arizona, after I'd been honing my chops for five years (a lot of years for 23). I showed up at auditions as a total unknown and crushed. I saw one of the directors' audit forms when it was all over. He had written, "Number XX is from god."

Other times gatekeepers hate new comedian guts too! I'd actually say, sadly, most of the time. Just as talent doesn't want to be overshadowed, tastemakers don't like their taste to be overshadowed either. They're like, Who is this new voice the people enjoy? I didn't tell them they could enjoy that! It's actually embarrassing. How overly sensitive gatekeepers are. And then they accuse artists of being sensitive?! Babe. Get real.

Anyway! What's so blessed about my crash-landing into LA is my main show I did in Chicago had a slot out here. It was that simple and lucky. Well, and I am very reliable and persistent. As soon as I arrived I was on the producers. "I'm available I'm available I'm available." And one week there was a drop, and wouldn't you know it I was at the theatre, hair and makeup ready, in record time. I know other people who were part of the ensemble for years and never transitioned into the west coast cast. I'm not more talented than them (though not worse). But I have something they don't: an ability to weather about nine million buckets of rejection just to maybe get what I think I want. Overall, though, I'd still only give myself half credit for achieving this particular dream. Honestly, I think that's all anyone ever deserves. There's no business like show business.

So I used to perform at the second U__, which was much nicer but allegedly not as cool. It closed during the plague, so now I get to perform at the original. It is better, which everyone always said. The space is smaller and more intimate and the sound is really well designed. Whispers carry and laughs boom but don't envelop. My first few shows I felt kind of off-balance because when they sell out, they put about 40 people on stage. It took me a minute to get used to belting inches from a person's face, jazz stepping around folding chairs. I am used to the smoosh, welcome it, these days.

Although regular improv no longer interests me, music improv still really really does. I guess because it's more like writing than acting to me. It's such a rush to be mentally writing a musical in your head, as four other people try to write the same musical in their heads, and none of you can talk about it. You just have to leap off the cliff with parachutes all together and hope you land in the same field and maybe that you do a few neat spins while you're falling. My friend SR randomly came to one of my mash-up shows in 2022. It was genuinely fine, but he was floored! Floored! You made all those songs up right on the spot! He came to some other crummy show a month later. He remarked, "Okay so I've seen some of these people before even though it was a totally different theatre..." Yes, I explained. There's like 50 of us in LA, in earnest. And then probably another 100-200 blooming in classes etc. SR asked how we rehearse, I told him we don't. He nodded, you're like flight attendants. What a quirky way to say it, and not wrong!

This post is getting a little long, so I'll do something atypical and write the rest later.

nocturne for the bees

A bee clump appeared the other evening. A big fuzzy mass, in a perfect circle. On the ceiling of the patio corridor. I learnt of it from the building group chat. Someone sent a photo.

One neighbor flipped out. She called the manager, this being an emergency. She yelped she is allergic.

Someone else researched the shape. Turns out such a clump means a community of bees have lost their hive, so they create a makeshift protection around the queen while scout bees look for a new home. Little homeless bees! I walked by them on my way home, took a peep. A big fuzzy mass, in a perfect circle. Very sweet when you consider the context.

Saw the flipper outter by the elevator. She flipped out about the bees more. I said, walk the other way. Just go another direction. She said she was allergic again. I do understand.

I find a beekeeping organization and contact them. I don't hear back right away. Beekeeping is a slow game. Online there are a lot of organizations that take bees, but not for free--huge misconception. It's very expensive to get bees ethically removed, which is insane.

The next day there's a pile of dead bees on the ground. No bees on the ceiling. Scattered friends toward the pool. I'm sure management had the handyman spray and that was that. Devastating.

At AB's Friday her cat hopped up toward the end of our session. The kitty batted her paws around. AB cheered, "Get it!" AB explained, "Sometimes she hunts bugs! And..." she trailed off, realizing that I might have an objection to killing bugs. And UGH SHE WOULD BE RIGHT WOULDN'T SHE BE?! I explained I consider cats killing bugs the laws of nature.

When we were about a month into our partnership a bird flew straight into her window while we were writing. I was deeply disturbed because the bird would probably die. AB was deeply disturbed by the omen of a bird committing suicide in front of us while we were writing a horror movie.

She had a brief appointment stop by, so I said, casually, "I'm gonna go be with the bird." AB didn't know me well enough to say anything but, "Okay!" I sat with the bird and even stroked her little back. She closed her tiny bird eyes, and I sat chatting with her. After a few more minutes AB came outside. She looked concerned, but I got the sense she was more concerned about me than the critter.

And then! The bird blinked away, and hopped into the sky and wobbled and then bobbled and then FLEW! The bird zipped off to a tree across the back valley. We were both like, "Oh! Well look at that!" I washed my hands and we were able to get back to it.

I confessed to AB last week I'd worried that day. If the bird had died, she would have seen me react so so badly. Maybe the whole thing would have been off. I remembered/said, how in my first ever week of summer camp a girl killed a spider in front of me, and I cried all night. And I was made to feel psycho, but I still don't understand why. The joke is, cruelty is supposed to be neutral?! (Dramatic. Puhg has started calling me a new nickname lately: "Drama." He's not wrong.)

At a meeting Thursday morning the videographer suddenly clapped the air. "Fruit fly," she said. I was taken aback. I know I'm intense, but I'm also just against senseless murder--sue me I guess. What was the bee's crime while we're at it? Existing on a planet where a woman is allergic? A big fuzzy mass, in a perfect circle.

like genuinely

I’m at the little pink cafe. I come here once a month before my laser appointments. If you get your hair burnt off, sometimes you need a special cookie or something. They’re blasting Lily Allen’s album start to finish, and I am loving it of course. 

Yesterday I thought about school shootings all day, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Got up early to finish the Toy Conglomerate commercial. Submitted it at 8:30, dramaturgy meeting at 9. Exercised and showered and talked to my producer—10K in play from an unlikely source, an actor from my favorite film franchise. You just never know. Set a call with my lawyer god bless her doing this deal pro bono because she knows I am bleeding money.

Met the school shooting survivor at the garden patio. She got a chocolate chip cookie and a huge sugary caramel iced coffee. 21and traumatized. We yap for two hours, and I have to hold my tongue several times. “Do you not see the patterns?” I want to ask, “How you say you’re doing okay but every story you tell…”

When I get home I’m supposed to work on the climate movie, but I collapse into bed and sleep for an hour instead. Rise just in time for the PR zoom. What should the poster look like? No guns, I say. Pinks and purples.

I work on an email to famous friends who might send me a blurb. I intro actors. I text BM just to laugh. I post to Insta, about auditions for the indie show. I write the maybe manager, would he be in for a gd lunch. At 7 Puhg and I head to the mall. I scamper around for khakis. I need them for improv. We settle in for a viewing of Overtone, which I enjoy even though I, true to form, despise a man wrote a movie about motherhood.

Been staying up late most nights. Not even doing very much. Writing in my diary, with my left hand, how I am excited and scared. The shooting survivor texts me, "it was so good seeing you again. thank you so much for bringing awareness to school shootings and not forgetting about it. like genuinely, thank you so much. it means the world."