We’re ahead of schedule. I want to be in the sun, but I also
don’t want anyone to think I’m weird for choosing the solo bench across from
the shaded tents. I take my bowl of kale down the block and sit on a curb
behind a trashcan. A garden café behind a Korean church. I take a phone call. I
drink a lemonade. I finish the short film script. I’m supposed to meat Ghoul
for dinner but go to the wrong Aroma. There are three Aromas in LA. She’s 45
minutes away. I get an email from AP. New pages need to be distributed quickly.
I feverishly drive around trying to find internet. Wind up on a Starbucks
patio, pausing work every fifteen minutes to move my car. After I press send I exhale
and buy a $49 massage. It is heavenly. I eat disgusting snack food in bed. I’ve
asked a stranger for advice.
Green canopy. I am kind of in trouble, but kind of not. On
the upside, I think feeling bad can be an indicator that you care. The 2nd
AD tells me his story and gives me a run-down of what is to come. What could be
to come. There’s a novel in the movie, and I am given the task of writing it.
The words will very probably not end up on screen, but I’m teenily proud. Puhg
and I talk on the phone while I walk in place because I am sick of sitting 12
hours a day.
Today there is a nameless black chair. For me. My headset
went from nothing to numbered to Sharpie on tape to officially label-gunned. AP
says she would definitely read through everybody’s text messages if she were
left alone for more than ten minutes with our phones. After work, Ghoul and I meet
at the real Aroma. Dig deep on art and commitment. The restaurant is inside a
house, and her black swan necklace, the twinkle lights, my chocolate cheesecake
make it seem like a dream.
How do you seem excited and no-big-deal at the same time? I
eat plantains with RD. We talk about ghosts and then how 2016 changed us for
real. “No one is thinking about you,” I block into my head. In a good way. It’s
late but there are obscure treat buns to be had with MB. Something is not
right. Maybe there is nothing up there.
And maybe the publicist is my friend. I have learned to make
duties for myself. I like duties. We go late, and I feel Friday fussy.
The sun makes it all better. I can’t be mad in the sun. No
parking, wrong turns, it just means less. I pack up and make my way to Santa
Monica singing Sheryl Crow. The best Salt and butter donut. The best. The best.
I read Oscar Wilde. I meet with a playwright. He rejuvenates me. He tells me
things I hope as if they are true. He has made a life this way. He is happy. I
feel California girl with new round glasses and hot pink lipstick. I study in
the Reading Room and walk to the beach, buy a new t-shirt and perfume on the
promenade, sit outside working on my book. Diablo and I eat Greek. I love her
and she tells me about an awkward encounter with Keanu Reeves. I’ve learned a
lot from interacting with famous people. Mainly that quantity of adoration is
not quality of adoration, and experience, even positive, with someone beloved
will never compare to an experience with one’s own beloved. We go to a
serendipitous movie, which I never do. Krasinski got us good. Today is the
opposite of Thursday. This is how weekends feel for non-teachers.
At 6 I’m up to do HIIT, at 8 I’m buying cashew yogurt at the
Studio City farmer’s market. Yosh & fiancée + Coors. We did comedy under a
Taco Bell. It never gets older, it never gets less magic. I worship in a sweatshirt
and meet some girls for lying around and discussing. Two hours loafing until I
can barely stand myself. Walk to a bakery and sip on oj and cookies, rip
through my book until my computer dies. There are a few more hours, but “just
go to sleep” I tell myself. Just go to sleep. You need it.
