Looking Backward Might Be to Only Way to Move Forward

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!

Christmas Eve for Sickos

Filled an empty See's box with grocery store gift cards for the neighborhood baristas. Puhg and I did the NYT puzzles as a gal yapped loudly next to us, a realtor who spoke rudely about her renters and their pipes. Read some of Women Who Run with the Wolves and jotted ideas for an essay about destroying capitalism. Finished the episode of Station 11 I fell asleep during. Got excited for my next play workshop, realized it would be the same exact date a previous workshop (defunded) fell apart.

I really wanted to enter the holiday without deadlines, so I wrote my Megacorp x Megacorp commercial from 4 - 6 PM. The sun served as my ticking clock. Sent the script away, ah. Put on my coat, stuffed my purse with candy, and hoofed into the night. It was very special club of us, everyone who went to the Vista on Christmas Eve to see a 3.5 hour historical drama about immigration and architecture. In line for popcorn I smiled and waved at a guy, then asked, wait--how do we know each other? Turns out he works at one of my haunts, we'd just never spoken. "Hi, sicko," Puhg said. And then we saw Jack Black, in bright pink shorts, walk by. Later, a guy who lost Survivor.

Right before the movie began my dad called, so I went outside to talk with him while the previews rolled. I stood in the alley with my hood over my eyes. There was an intermission, which felt so cute and quaint. The entire place was abuzz with folks running into each other and refilling their pop. Everyone liked the movie, you could just tell. Applause etc. We decided to wait for the credits to end before braving the chilly California night. The streets were truly empty. We trotted the mile home, jaywalking for fun and spinning under the hung lights. We talked about art and if the journey is actually greater than the destination. Maybe the destination gives weight to the journey--has anyone ever considered that?

At the last stoplight (red and green) Puhg opened his phone to the ham cam app. She had just gotten up, was drinking water. We tore down the sidewalk, bursting in the door in time to grab her. "Christmas ham!" we cheered at her. And she blinked--because hamsters don't know about holidays, but I like to think they can sense them, in their tiny hamster hearts.

Stories R Us

Our stories are us. I see it (hear it) more each day. How I can be talking with what appears to be a person when suddenly a Story takes over. Sometimes new, sometimes ancient. In a blink, a unique being presses play on the tape in their head, and suddenly they speak words they once heard spoken.

We know about the complexities of "cultural narrative" but when you get right down to it, we are Stories. We have our own, braided into our family's, our friend's, our community's, our history's, our oligarch's. Why do you tell the Stories you tell? The ones you repeat? The ones everyone knows. The ones your partner can see coming. The ones you have locked and loaded. To entertain? To be relevant? To push an agenda--maybe not even your own?

When I taught playwriting to underserved teens in Chicago one of our first lessons was about morals and themes. We discussed what kind of bedtime Story might be useful to tell a hypothetical rambunctious child. The students chirped, tales about jumping on sofas and breaking vases. I asked what narratives the students, as South Side high schoolers, don't like. "That Mexicans are lazy!" a guy announced. The class was like YEAH. So, I asked, what if we wrote a Story about a lazy bee who never gathered honey? To teach children to finish their homework? How about that? The class had no qualms. I added, now what if I named that bee Maria Sophia Garcia? NO, they shouted! Sometimes I think about the Stories I love and ask myself what they're saying. I rewatched one of my so-called favorite movies recently to find it still incredible and entertaining but in some ways actually majorly opposed to my values.

In college I learned there may actually be just two Stories: Boy Meets Girl and Jesus. Or, some would argue, A Stranger Comes to Town. Lately I tend to think it's Mother or Father. Which is coincidental (or, not at all) because I learned to tell Stories from my parents.

As a journalist, my dad spent his whole life pretty overtly telling Stories. Other people's, through his own rectangular yellow pad. My dad was often on the move when I was younger. Headed to events or the police station or local board meetings. Then he'd sit at the computer, seemingly tortured, tapping away. As I got older I basically never heard from him without also hearing about someone else's Story--maybe a baker or a teacher or a nurse or a consignment shop owner or an architect he met on a plane. Sometimes a text went along with the anecdote, but sometimes it was only news unfit to print. My favorite memory of my dad is probably the Thanksgiving he chose to write about some pantry service group of women who would be in the Christmas parade, zooming with choreographed grocery carts. We watched the marching band and floats together from the sidewalk, but when the gals with their carts whizzed by he took off down the street after them. I could hear him shout, "HELLO C____ S______ WITH THE DAILY TIMES!" I watched his hat get smaller and smaller. Later we met in the park to watch the trees light up.

It's true he'll try to get the scoop on anyone. We've basically never had a waitress escape my dad's questioning. She'll stop by to top off his coffee and he'll slip a "so where are you from" in. "How are they treating you here?" is another staple. We stopped to talk to a guy in the Cracker Barrel parking lot. We stopped to get the skinny on each card table at the farmer's market. Any shop window can be peered in. But also, there are Dad's Stories. The one about the garage and the one about the cactus and the one about the me and my stuffed animals. Sometimes he'll even ask if he's told me about something, I will say yes, and he will still tell me. I've learned to think of these little globs of history as somehow significant, and I do ask myself why and what they prove.

My mom also has her Stories. I have heard some over and over and some never before. I would say common themes tend to be efficiency, good deals, a twist, doing the right thing, and suspicion. She observes what people say and do and later reflects on who might be a snake. Her Chicago accent very thick and she narrows her eyes and starts with a specific see. It took me many years to recognize she is not a documentarian, but an author--just a different kind. She will report on a fact but twirl in some findings. There is great wisdom I've discovered from these Stories. Not far off from magical realism or historical fiction. The world becomes a paper backdrop and paper dolls with which to exemplify one's own viewpoints. I remember she told me the Story of a middle school teacher marking her test wrong. Later she found out she was right. "Thus began my lifelong journey as a skeptic," she said. We laughed, but where was the joke?

I get my nosiness from my dad, but I get my ability to retell a day's Story from my mom. She basks in little gratitude breaks. After every outing she recaps how we did it just right, or maybe how we'd do it differently if we did it again. At the end of vacation nights we like to reminisce about all we didn't know when we woke up. All we couldn't have guessed! Everything is a little book. You'd think we were reimagining a trip from years ago, when the activity was, in fact, hours ago. My mom will spend five minutes regaling me with how we found a perfect parking spot, even if I was in the the one driving. I think it's nice to know things are nice while they are nice. I like nice Stories. I think we could use more of them.

Both my parents' Stories have been known to change. A historian and Storyteller myself, sometimes these revisions give me pause. What is even true if Stories change? Especially if Stories are us. Then again, then again, what will be true if we don't change? And if we are changing and we are Stories, how could I expect anything different?

Christmas Pop-Tart

Before we drove out of Phoenix, Puhg and I stopped at the hipster coffee shop. We’d already been, the day before. I outlined a short story idea, a cool dude complimented Puhg on the Suns jacket I thrifted for him, and we both drank iced mochas.

We took the trip to celebrate Puhg’s dad’s birthday. At the sunny event I drank four ginger beers and ate a bunch of pizza and wore a plain white t-shirt. Madwomaning like you wouldn’t believe. The sunset was very pink, watched it with Puhg's aunt. Later we got breakfast burritos with the best green sauce ever. I sat outside on Kale’s porch, then stuffed my face while her husband told me about his recent friend break-up. I was bold enough to say, It seems the root of your friction is that you think he thinks he’s better than you. How much of that is based on his actions toward you vs. your own bruised self esteem? We figure some things out before I have to go lay on the floor with headphones in watching the final livestream of Eras.

Saturday night I got dinner with Shellz at Cornish. We riled each other up, as we do, and laughed, as we do. We saw a play because I wanted to see the play and also because I hoped the theatre company might do mine one day. I ran into a dear friend in the lobby. We hugged forever and then she introduced me to the artistic director, who seemed cold and uninterested. I cried on the car ride home about it, of course. I’m desperate to get this piece produced. I have some of the greatest minds in comedy behind it and yet!

I talked to another Broadway producer about it two weeks ago, the dramaturg for the most prestigious award in playwriting a few days after. They both confirmed, the play is excellent, but the industry is collapsing, and artists who aren’t independently wealthy are kinda out of luck. It felt nice to be told. I looked up the playwright for the piece I’d seen. I guess it was “good”? It won a Pulitzer. But, man, it was nothing new! A realistic examination of the working class. Okay so WHAT? I muttered in my head as the cast bowed. No levity, no solutions, just sort of: wow, have you considered some people are poor?! Aren’t we brave to think about that?! Just as I suspected, the writer attended one of the country’s most prominent art academies and then two Ivy Leagues. I don’t care if I sound bitter! Sometimes I think we’ve been taught that bitterness is inherently bad because it’s a necessary ingredient to achieving class consciousness! But I’ve also observed, people who are Oops All Bitter lose their ability to make beautiful art. A little bit goes a long way, I guess, like the dark chocolate shell around a scotchmallow from See’s.

Monday was for bonus Shellz lunch. The same vegan place we’ve been going since we were 23. She still pretends it's going to be bad. It's tradition. I had my beloved Thai peanut salad, drafted the short story. I drove to the mall in sunshine and picked up Puhg from the movies. When we first started dating he said he’d never go to that mall again because he worked retail at Levi’s there during college. This weekend, while waiting for me, he walked to the storefront and took a selfie. More spinach cocktail pasties with Kiles followed by the dreamiest banoffee. I asked everyone if they’d like any, served one bowl, then stood in the kitchen devouring the rest.

So on the way out of town, I order an oat vanilla latte and peep the pastry case. There’s an adorable sprinkled pop-tart filled with maple apple butter, apparently. I tap on the glass. That, I say to the barista, the cute little Christmas thing.

So YOU, she says, as though we’ve ever met. I laugh so fully then say always great to get a chuckle in before 9 AM. She nods to the other barista, says they're always chuckling. A couple chuckleheads, I encourage. That’s what they call us, she confirms. Reality has melted away. You should work here, she says, you’d fit right in, we’d all be chuckleheads. I agree, of course. I eat the pop-tart when we’re back in LA. At night. On the couch. It’s delicious.

Straw

On Friday we went to the movies because why not try. Saw Heretic. It was nice. Then crossing the street back to our parking spot, some guy in a white sports car zoomed across the intersection, turning left, nearly hitting Puhg. I screamed, so the car swerved--nearly smashing into me. The guy's window was open, and I screamed, "STOP!" at him, tears in my eyes.

He laughed at me.

I screamed after him as he drove off. I rushed across the street, shaking, and as I did another guy in a sports car zipped by. He rolled down his window and yelled, "YOU SHOULD KEEP YOUR HEAD UP, BITCH." Pugh threw the last of our fountain soda toward him as he burned rubber away.

I burst into tears and ran into Puhg. We walked down the street, me crying. "Oh," Puhg said, "Your...straw." The metal straw I keep in my purse so I don't have to use plastic around town. Like that even matters. Or ever mattered. There's microplastic in every single food we eat and beverage we drink.

Anyway, the straw was in the soda cup. Puhg turned around, squinting into traffic at night. "It's okay," I said, "I don't want it anymore."

At home Puhg gently suggested I could have put myself in danger, yelling at that guy. "But he almost killed me," I said. "I know," he said.

The thing about me is, I'm not just gonna stand here and let myself be killed.

Community Is The People You Know Jack Told Me

In the morning no one wanted to say it out loud. I was up at 5 AM, seeing what there was to see. Puhg decided not to be on his phone, wiser than me. But I needed to witness it. Present tense also.

I texted the gals I'd started texting at night. When ____ texted me the news, before it was official. It happened in ten minutes, I keep saying. At 9:20 I didn't believe and by 9:30 it was done. So the gals being, Cass and Shell and Nini. My mom called. We'd scheduled to talk a few days ago, because she was going on vacation, not for any other reason. I walked my usual path, the bees, the trees, and the hill that opens up into skyline. I try to express, I just don't understand reality anymore. How long is there until? I can't remember if I took a shower.

Seline texted she was sobbing, walking her husband, a middle school history teacher, to school. I was crossing the boulevard, felt a huge sob in my chest and just started bawling in front a crew of folks headed up the mountain in tall socks. Met Pugh at the cafe. Immediately, the two cutely-dressed 20somethings next to us started chattering about improv classes. I had to get out of there.

I missed the start of my writers' group, but I decided to drive over for the last half hour. Triscuit offered to buy me a coffee, even though is younger and poorer than me. We talked about Parable of the Sower and who feels what level of severity. District said he was horrified, but we just have to make it through. Triscuit and I, less sure. Lan, the wisest, chooses to listen, with his dog on his lap. She has heavy eyes and doesn't know anything. District said he was excited for the Wicked movie, and I said me too. We need to sing karaoke, he said, and I agreed. He said we should sing "Loathing." I said it was too appropriate. What IS this feeling, I asked? He began singing, and I didn't leave him hanging. I drove home listening to "All Too Well (Ten Minute Version)" and hit that little rewind button several times so I could scream FUCK THE PATRIARCHY ten times in a row. Parked, I watched my clip of Taylor Swift singing in live.

I had one work email to answer, which I did. I went on the internet for a while, panicking and hoping. Wrung my hands. Thought a lot. Jack and I had talked so much about revolution in New Orleans. He writes me that in hindsight, that conversation was so important the entire universe brought us together for it. Reminded Diz to eat lunch and vice versa. Crab had asked if we could meet. We hiked up to the Hollywood sign. We started talking about the real things, but soon she started talking about work and projects so I put on a mask and didn't like it. It was 80 degrees in November. I wore shorts and a t-shirt and came down sweating. My sister and I talked on the phone. We talked about trying and creativity. I text AB safe travels because she was starting on a new movie. "What a shit show," she says, followed by gratitude we get to do art and live in LA. Rain and I texted crying emojis, enough said. EDS asked how I was and I said he knew and I asked him and he said same. We went down to the dark place.

I'd sent Lavender a screenshot from Sex and the City Tuesday morning. Lavender asked if it was a real line from the show.  "Shall we get more coffee or shall we get guns and kill ourselves?" Neither of us knew. At 5 PM yesterday she texted me, "First of all I love you and am sending you light and love." Then she said she didn't even look it up, she remembered, exactly what episode the line was from. Carrie and Aidan had just broken up. I wrote back, "You starting with obligatory light and love is so dystopian hilarious." She said she knew.

Seline invited me to happy hour with she and Jello. Perfect, I thought. I stopped at the store, where my cashier asked how I was and I said good! you?! because I am so irritatingly trained to perform being good all the time. As the cashier was saying, "I'm good thanks for aski--!" I interrupted. "I'm actually not good. I'm not good at all!" He nodded and stopped talking to me. I walked down the street in my new black jeans listening to the bridge of "But Daddy I Love Him." I ran into Mand and Jia on the block, walking a dog and a baby. Jia's face was tear-destroyed. She said her walls were up. I asked Slou if she knew of any hiding basements in Toronto. I told C I'd work for his rights. Grave put me on a group text with our third friend, asking if we were in the organizing meeting for the climate group. She said she'd fill me in later. I felt guilt then thought louder NO I DON'T.

The gals all independently ordered nachos. As each plate came we all politely said, "Everyone help yourself I'll never finish these!" Then we hunched over the feast and gobbled every shred of cheese, deciding which version of Keanu Reeves is most attractive. I said Nancy Meyers or Bill and Ted. Seline said The Lake House. Jello mentioned Speed. The fourth, a movie I didn't know. Then Seline told us her husband knew it was going to happen. History teacher, I thought again.

I walked to the massage shop. The front desk gal said they were very busy. I had asked for my favorite specialist, but she was in Thailand. I asked when she was coming back. Never, actually. I got an hour massage from someone else and tried to feel all the knots in my back rolling around but still spent half the time in my head, thinking about climate collapse.

I zipped home for Survivor, my escape, but ended up crying because Jeff Probst basically forced a vegan contestant to eat chicken. "I hate him," I said to Puhg. And right then and right now I do. I fell asleep on the couch but woke up to hold Sweet Potato. I fell asleep again.

because its you

I’ll never get over it. I heard “argumentative antithetical dream girl” live. I screamed it, even. Next to two of my closest friends. We met when we were 11. And only now, in our 30s, can we begin to understand what that meant. As we sit in the fancy restaurant with honey butter biscuits and tiny dishes of pasta, brought by our waiter, who wears a pin that says, “we’re all just dogs in god’s hot car.” I didn’t know Belle moved in 6th grade or what Diz’s calendar of black dots meant. And now I do, and now we laugh over beignets and grief. 300 take-out coffees later, or at least three French Quarter cafe au laits later.

This weekend was an all-time golden life highlight. Trotting around, lured into charming shops and funny bars by the constant Taylor Swift blaring. At the airport I yell “1-2-3—" before climbing in the cab, a Swiftie shyly mutters back: “Let’s go, b*tch!” And I do the same thing on Friday afternoon at the hotel pool, the sea of eager girlies chiming in before I cannonball. On Saturday the chant booms, the Superdome quaking in girlhood. When it’s one for the money and two for the show during “Champagne Problems” I see all the hands in front of me whip forward, just like I always do when I’m in my car or bedroom, listening alone.

I had no plans Thursday night, but when I landed, I found Gos had texted me. He was in New Orleans! Total coincidence. We walk the Halloween streets. Folks on a balcony hold up a sign that says, “Show Us Your T*ts.” Gos yells up, “I got rid of mine!” We split hot cauliflower and all our memories of the old comedy theatre. He’s happy. Life is long.

On Friday I am much too excited to sleep when the gals do, so I head to Bourbon Street alone. I get a slushy that tastes like wedding cake. Not sure what it’s usually called, but there’s a temporary sign slapped on the machine: “Love Story.” A bouncer beckons me into a bumping party. I jump with a hundred strangers and emotionally belt “Out of the Woods” with a circle I’ll think about for a while. After an hour of non-stop Swift, the DJ starts “American Girl” and the crowd boos. He puts his hands up, like we’re shimmery cops, and presses play on “Style.” YOU ALREADY PLAYED THAT we screech. He says into the mic, “Wow, Swifties let you know fast!” And he desperately picks a folklore track.

SABRINA CARPENTER duet of "Espresso" and "Please Please Please." I had to sit down after. Mind fully blown. Throat shot. Earlier I’d told a random girl from New York, I’d love to hear a slow piano-fabulous “Welcome to New York.” Ten hours later, I do. I time travel to 2017, that depressing summer I couldn't find any work and ended up teaching drama at various summer camps. A first grader in the arts cabin pointed her finger at me one morning and commanded, "LET US DANCE TO WELCOME TO NEW YORK." And so I did. Meanwhile in 2024 the three of us make friendship bracelets and do our make-up and spit toothpaste in the sink while someone else curls her hair while someone else applies glitter freckles. It’s not unlike the summer camp bathhouse.

A stranger from the internet finds me to give me beads that spell “your ivy grows”—a sign. Blondie wore her lavender dress like I did. The psychic says, “definitely” and so say we. Belle watches her daughter’s softball livestream. Diz on the hunt for a soft pretzel. A stadium worker goes to the back to find some, hot and fresh. I give her beads that say “Swiftie” and I feel like we’re friends for all time. At airport security the woman who checks my backpack sheepishly asks if I’d like to donate any bracelets, and boy would I! I give her one that says "The Man U Script." She shakes it proudly on her wrist. I observe as our doorman becomes progressively sparkly all day. A very drunk guy corners me, says he’s so impressed by the culture, said he cried after a girl gave him a friendship bracelet. “I’ve never felt so welcomed before.” Yeah, man, I want to say, f*ck the patriarchy. We sing it loud and proud where football lives. The tiny gal in front of us dances in the aisle, proudly reciting if she were a man, she’d be the man. The itty bitty who gave me a yellow circle of “YBWM”—I’ll never trade it.

When it was all over, I was so fed I couldn’t even taste the bitter of bittersweet. We poured onto the street, completely shut down. I spy a woman in a gown getting her feet rubbed at a dinky massage parlor. Belle started chanting “Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead!” and it caught like fire, until there we all were, marching through the city like a femme rage army. We sign a fan’s white dress with our favorite lyrics. I write in Sharpie, “we were in screaming color.” We ended up in an air-conditioned room playing music videos. “She’s so young,” we keep marveling. So were we, I think. So were we.

On Sunday, with only an hour left in the magical city I decide to walk to the park. But on the way I see a familiar shop. The spot I had my tea leaves read when I worked on the cruise ship. Too kismet to pass up. The medium reads the cup, explains I don’t need anymore big dreams. I need to find people who will help me make my dreams a reality. I'll never get over it, how it hit different this time.

The Summer My Mother Made Grape Salad

 It was

a terribly gloomy June,

plans made of cheese cloth

and dreams cracked in half,

the summer my mother made grape salad.

It wasn't

for lack of trying.

I went to parties and cafes and community events at the Ruby place.

I wrote every day and I went to the pool also

every day. No,

really, I went for two months straight. Never missed

in my pink two-piece that's disintegrated now.

Faded into oblivion, caked in dirt.

I read all of Madwoman in the Attic and half of Still Mad.

I listened to Sabrina Carpenter and Charli XCX.

I had the young ones over to prep for SNL auditions

and discuss how to fight for a Free Palestine.

I rolled my eyes at the old ones, resentful to lose what I never gained.

Puhg and I went to the movies so often,

and I always liked it. Sometimes we went with another couple.

Sometimes I wore a mask. I said yes

to just about every comedy show, and I walked

home from UCB many nights, often singing the bridge of "But Daddy I Love Him"

while hiking up the big hill on Western. I saw coyotes twice and my hamster

only if I got up in the middle of the night.

I put my phone on Do Not Disturb to watch Eras livestreams and managed my Etsy shop.

My mom and sister visited in July. My mom had mentioned making the grape salad for the Fourth.

I hadn't had it in twenty years. She made two tubs, no thanks to me.

I ate through the glop for weeks. The crunch of brown sugar and the softened pecans.

There was power

in many moments! To see my own book on the shelf,

all the miracles my partner makes to make our life

so much better. The run-ins around the neighborhood and cackling with Tira

and when she apologized.

All the validation

that assured me

and assured me there is nothing stable anymore--

do with that as you will--

the summer my mother made grape salad.

Kia His Car

The frog was the payment. $3000 to replace the car battery. But the walk over was pleasant, at least. ApplePay feels magical when you’re buying a little treat and evil when you’re dropping an entire paycheck. BEEP there goes the money.

Bopped to the coffee shop with the big windows. Promoted my book, promoted my essay, and then Beef showed up. She munched a small croissant as we gossiped, right until I had to rush away for a lunch, at the wooden patio with the exec who said she wanted to pay me five figures to develop an idea and then ghosted my manager for five months. Whatever, now she’s buying me a $20 sandwich. That’s showbiz. In line we see another exec and then we talk about Taylor Swift for most of the meeting.

At home I fire away business emails. I spent the week working on a climate PSA, a Toy Conglomerate script, and my newest play. Plus continued negotiations and a new project. I rush down to the pool by 4 to read and dip before throwing gold glitter on my eyelids and Ubering over to some friend of a friend’s house. It’s where we’re meeting up to carpool to Olivia Rodrigo at the Kia Forum. Buckle is a great concert seat mate. He really lets his emotions out. I don’t take many photos or videos, opting to remember things instead. I am impressed by how much more of a star Olivia has become since I saw her six months ago. She lets the crowd take over, she offers up commercial insights. She is doing a show in a show now. I like the part when we all scream, “LIKE A DAMN SOCIOPATH” and I love knowing whoever she wrote that song about assuredly has friends in attendance. I order mozzarella sticks on the way home. They’re sitting on the ground, waiting for me when I make it back.

I sleep in Saturday, do a dance workout, hustle to the same coffee shop by 11. I clock two hours on my new play. It’s way too long. I’m 2/3 done and it’s already 150 pages. This one is a beast, but I think about it all the time, now that I’ve slotted it into first position. Not a day goes by some line or new accent doesn’t pop into my head when I least expect it.

I eat vegan buffalo wings and carrots, watch part of the John Travolta movie Phenomenon with Puhg. It’s so boring, but I am curious how it will end. Drive to Trader Joe’s for a variety of snacks, read at the pool, hop in, get my hair done. My guy gently checks my political temperature then conspiratorially informs me he thinks 45 is the literal devil. I read Miranda July’s new book under the heater. The highlights look splotchy, which they always do, but who really cares? I like getting shampoo’d in a teal wonderland with a fountain and paying $90 cash.

I shove a hoodie and blanket into my backpack and grab a beach chair and head to the Hollywood Forever cemetery to watch Bring It On. The friends of friends had invited me and I think they’re all surprised when I show up. I talk about ceramics with one, camo pants with another, the ethics of using certain homophobic slurs cheekily with a third. Kirsten Dunst is there and knowing that does enhance the experience. The crowd keeps screaming when her teen character makes good choices. I munch brie and dried apricots and cotton candy grapes and about 20 cookies. Puhg picks me up a few blocks away. I stay up, listening to a YouTube video about changing your mindset and eat about 30 more cookies. In the middle of the night, Sweet Potato gets scooped, and I pet her nose.

At our traditional morning spot, Puhg and I do New York Times puzzles and chat with a barista about The Egyptian. I plot out my week’s goals. I have a deadline Wednesday and I am torn between working on it all day (to get ahead) or "enjoying the weekend." I decided on the second and go to the pool. Almost done with my feminist literature book, dive in, float around. Puhg has a lot of news, but it’s mostly good, I think. Buffalo wings and carrots and then I drive over to the friends of friends joint birthday. Tarp says, “Three days in a row!” And it’s true. We buy bingo cards, and a chicken is in a coop, and the sun is blazing. I pay for valet, drink half a watermelon slushie, am only a little in my head when I gab with my friend who became a gatekeeper who is maybe back to a friend.

Home just in time to Zoom with Cobra. She’s going to work on herself for the next six months, she declares. We laugh about the state of our industry. I wear my lavender romper and head to our Mexican restaurant for a double date. Everyone talks about who they were in high school, we eat four bowls of chips, a plane pens ‘SHERRY” across the blue sky. We walk down to the cabaret theatre to see ____’s work in progress solo show. It’s more heartfelt than I anticipate, a pleasant surprise. I enjoy seeing a dozen or so people from my past but I am relieved when I’ve said all the hellos and can walk home listening to Radiohead. I post photos to Instagram and after Puhg explains Sweet Potato is refusing to come out, I fall asleep.

The Shake Shack in Hollywood

Wake up before the alarm, to a text, asking if I can hop on a show this Friday night. I can! A dance workout, put pumpkin rolls in the oven. Wear my new concert t-shirt. It's baby blue and reminds me of how fun it was to scream "Constant Headache" at The Greek in a row by myself.

I trot down to the coffee shop to meet Puhg for a latte. The barista working, my favorite, a young director. I journal and jet of by 9:10 to meet my writer's group for breakfast in Hirshy's beautiful backyard. I make a big deal about taking the last apple pop-tart and then don't even finish it. Shawl texts me we could write at a cafe together for an hour. I'd have to bail early and consider, as I do often these days, how much to amend my life to accommodate famous people. But the cafe is only five minutes away, so I go and order two eggs and and a lemonade and gab with the funny star. After she leaves I write a scene of my new play, make it home by 2.

Answer some emails in bed. Set up a coffee with AB for next week! Hit the pool. Read my fat Madwoman book, swim, swim, swim. In the deep end I find a bee. I use a leaf to air-lift her to the ledge. Every lap I take a peek. She seems to be breathing and drying, like ohmyGOD what was that all about?

Shower and get ready in a jif. Decide to go with grey dress and bubblegum lipstick. Hop in a cab to meet my manager at the Shake Shack on Hollywood Boulevard. If you live here, you never go to Hollywood Boulevard. It's funny to sit waiting for her around all the tourists. K___ is quite late, but I don't mind. I practice my Japanese. She shows up with her magic company credit card and I get to eat a veggie burger and Coke. And we gab about all my meetings from the week and how hopeless this industry is. But it feels better, when I'm laughing about it, eating a free veggie burger and Coke.

We walk two blocks to the networking mixer and stop to enjoy bits from the walk of fame. I take a picture with Bette Davis's star. Feels important at the time. At the mixer I see a writer I know, who immediately tells me he had to get a survival job in marketing. We run into a theatre producer and I feel myself ooze. I'm sick of oozing. We chat with another exec, clink classes with a couple other writers. One is so fresh-faced and nervous--I admire he came to this big group thing alone.

The pack heads to the theatre on foot, and we watch a brilliant production of Company. My dear friend R___ waves to me at intermission. She's wearing a bright yellow dress and looks anxious. In Act Two I spend a lot of time thinking about my own work. I try to stop myself, but inspiration can't always be tamed. My manager and I gossip out into the night and go to the chic ice cream shop to discuss everyone we know in the context of the musical. Once my mouth is black from brownie batter I call Puhg to pick me up. My manager reassures me, we are getting by. We're cockroaches, but we're alive. And then, a cockroach crawls up from the wall behind her and threatens to jump into her hair! I pull her away in the nick of time.

At 11 Sweet Potato is up, lying very flat but happily in Puhg's shadow. She gets an apple slice.

Float Away Then

On a gust of wind. I'll float away, maybe like an old party streamer, but let's not kid ourselves, more accurately, a piece of garbage. A piece of garbage so unwanted that whoever threw her out couldn't even be bothered to make it into the trash can.

She's lifted from the sidewalk and spins up and up in a gust. Maybe she'll get stuck in a tree, or maybe she'll just land at the dump. Where she's always belonged. It was nice pretending for a while. It was stupid, but at least it was nice.

solstice is stupid this year

two cockroaches in the apartment, empty promises from every stupid person in this town

rich people say they love my work then chuck it and run off to the Hamptons while I fry alive in this wretched place

but it's not just business, I can handle being unwanted but I'd rather just know instead of find out

tore the whole place apart looking for my credit card

I was getting an award tonight so I dressed up in a big stupid dress with stupid boots and drove an hour across town but my manager realized she was sick the moment we met so she bailed and I sat like an idiot at the fancy restaurant wondering if I should buy the stupid $22 salad anyway because I was so hungry but also so depressed, the waiter never came so I didn’t have to decide, I just left

walked to a diner instead, had my Coke and veggie burger in a booth alone, it was $20 and it all may have been salvaged if I had my book but I didn't

went stag to the ceremony, couldn't even fake it, basically dead as someone ran up to me after "are you just so excited?!" for what I wanted to scream at them for exactly what would I be excited about

forget it let the sun sink into the ocean and take me with her