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Quiet, dark hotel naps. Taco Bell bag in the Trash bb. Sunday afternoon, snuggled in bed, watched the first half of Beaches and later a comedy on the couch full of chickenless noodle soup.

Monday afternoon an old friend from summer camp meets me for lunch. It's a special language and understanding we share even though we were never in the same cabin. At night, Grief throws a seance at her house. Well, at least we order donuts and try the Ouija board. Buckle lights candles and maybe moves the plastic piece.

It's been a week of bonding with Bundo and Copper. They get fed up with something and I do an impression of it, we all power up the volume and sing The Fray. We believe in each other's dreams and each other's best. I am glad we have to be so close even though I no longer have any patience for people eating cereal, making phone calls, or breathing.

It's amazing to be so creative every day. In a week I write something like 100 jokes and pitch 10 ideas. Once they're submitted I feel accomplished even though they boil down to 10 jokes and one idea. In the morning I'm in a sketch with the darlings of wrestling. It's so normal to be dragged into this stuff I don't wear any makeup or look at my hair. Later, when the spot plays, I kind of regret this. One of my favorite writers walks out the door I'm standing near. I say "thank you for coming" and he says "thank you" and I wish I had told him. It would have been okay. Maybe I will meet him again one day and say I pitched the bit he liked.

Wolfgang Puck does a demo, and I get to eat a leftover brownie. I take home a tiny chocolate Oscar. I eat too many sugars all day and vow to be better. Wednesday I take a walk with Lolo. Make a point to be with Puhg at night. I love him more and more every day.

Thursday I get bold. I respond to a rejection email, throw out two lines, go on a date in the middle of the day. AP has her girls over to a private gym for a dance/weights workout. It's invigorating to jump and kick and even use the frustrating resistance band. The normalcy is so strange. We hadn't met a year ago. Social media can be a chump, but I watch my friends' honeymoon happily, hear about a possible new love interest from another on Polo, discuss careers from LA to Omaha.

Pug and I run Friday morning. Oh, is it tiring with hills. I need to power through tasks and go to the yogi cafe before work even begins. When I return I'm pulled in for a meeting, and then I tend to my feelings about the meeting for hours. I'm wearing sandals so Tira and I walk in the green room. I leave a little late, but traffic makes me very late for dinner. We shovel in a falafel. I am tired and haggard. We see The Cripple of Inishman at a local theatre. It's okay. Exhausted, it's time to spritz my rose pillow spray and sleep.

LA: Six Don't Mix

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?