Out of all the incredible people in the world, I have
already met the best ones. There is a bitterness I never want to know. I sit
with three of my first improv students over Vietnamese. One calls me Momedy.
Being a teacher is the best. I email my Chicago students pump-ups about finals.
I wish I could be there. I really really do.
When we switch locations, no one waits for me while I’m
printing. I’m rushed across town in a van to deliver the pages hot into AG and
TF’s hands. I had zoomed as fast as possible, but who knows what it looks like.
The bar is smoky. It reminds me of haunted houses. We go late, and I am cranky.
Sitting in a closed down deli watching a monitor. My brain isn’t working enough
to be productive. I eat too many noodles and still open a candy when I get
home. AP introduces me to TF. I text Puhg a billion messages. He sends me love.
Zumba, bang trim, unclear times. I see how people, no matter
who they are, can feel self-conscious or negative. Is everyone? My experience
is too limited. The evening is easy-going. AP orders me to find her a funny
video of Melania avoiding Trump. We talk a lot about Nic Cage. No matter where
you are, there are days like this, where we’re happy to be doing the work. The
camera man steps on my foot and must stay there until the shot is over. It’s
really okay. I can’t stop snacking after work. This week has been brutal on my
guts. My leggings are snug.
Early in Malibu. Have a pier oatmeal and write up notes for
Turk’s pilot. The ocean is gorg, the surf’s up, but I feel the best because I’m
replotting his story arcs. Later, when he texts me, “OMG these are the best
notes I’ve gotten” I feel settled. I close out my solo time with an ice cream
sandwich. The winery canyon is gorgeous. Unreal. Sit on a slope thinking about
guilty Bill Cosby. It’s cold, and I forgot my coat. MS notices. I feel guilty
taking up his brain space. There’s a lot of goofing with Grief. We’re perched
in a teeny crook and pass back and forth into the actor cottage to keep warm.
There’s a moment I have to trot down for a question. The scene looks just as it
does in monitors—glowing and wine. Cowsk asks me to text her when I get home.
The roads are winding, we wrap at 2. The sunset was purple.
I let myself move slowly. My insides are ugly. Kath and I
have pastries and walk around the rich houses. I have a salad for dinner and
write in the house café I almost feel will be a Place. I’m proud that I know
how not to be awkward when I am new somewhere. I do my first LA BWC at a big
fat theatre. I do alright, but it’s the first pancake. East Side Fury. Diablo
is outside waiting. She’s too enthusiastic with the rest of the cast and we
walk a mile to an ice cream shop. It is VERY GOOD. Notably so. There are no
closed doors when I’m with my people. A Jar’s birthday in a speak-easy. The
bouncer shows us a video on our way out. We don’t stay very long and end up
laughing hysterically in the parking lot. It reminds me of when I had to say
goodbye to Puhg the night I moved to Chicago. Seen.
In love with the main drag—super sunshine. Oatmeal date
smoothie. I get a wax & massage for half the Chicago price. A lime juice
fruit cart. I’m supposed to be packing, but I want to soak it up a little
longer even though a scrub cat calls me for a long time. Diablo and I had
jumped up and down about our love for Brit Marling, so she comes over with her
DVD case. We eat candy on candy and watch her work. We’ve now seen it all. Are
they all the same? If it’s true each writer writes the same story over and
over, what are ours?
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