Tragedy in Drama

Just! Had! A! Veggie! Ranch! Burrito! With! Shine! (An grad school peer of mine who's in the city for a conference!) I dunno. I liked him in school, but I loved seeing his face. I'm missing AZ fiercely in this nineteen degree ice hole.

It occurred to me for a moment that he should read my new play. But then I  remembered he's in school and a full time teacher. He doesn't have time for that. I thought about offering to read his stuff, but I know I can't. I'm a writer, which means I write and have a full time career. Major art trap. All the talented muses I've ever met are too busy to quietly read each other's work. I bless those sweethearts who do.

Can 'Do

Been told so many times you're not supposed to wash your hair every day. Healthiest to wash every three or something. I could never get on that level. I know, I know, once you start doing it, your hair responds, and it doesn't get greasy by the end of the second day.

Anyway, since I got my hair chopped I started washing it every day because greasy long hair can be braided or ponyed but greasy crew cut just looks nasty. Also, how much can I be ruining my hair? There's an inch of it, ya know?

But yesterday after my long Lake Michigan walk I decided to forgo the shampoo and just let my head do its thang. My only plans for the rest of the day were to buy stickers at Michaels and probably try to time dinner so King of Queens would be on. Gosh, I'm so glad I just spent three years getting an MFA.* Whatevs, point being, I wasn't exactly going to the governor's ball, or even a monster's ball (whaddup Halle Berry) so who would care what my hair looked like.

I really missed that fully clean feeling. I missed it all day. And my face felt shinier? I was super stoked to get the utmost clean today. The thing is, I just really like washing my hair every day. So, like, maybe I'm just gonna do that for the rest of my life. It seems like I just should.

Current state of the quaff. Dizz and I saw Aidy Bryant last week. She ordered "root beer for the table."

And you know that when the truth is told

you can do what you want or you can just get old.

*The funny thing is I really am very glad I spent three years getting an MFA. It's chill, things will happen.

Defense

Today at 3:30 MST I defended my Master's thesis. I wasn't too worried.

My committee (four professors who have been giant shaping mechanisms for three years) sat smiling at a rectangle table. They were good-natured because I brought them cookies and because they knew what I knew. The heavy lifting is in the distant past now--my play opened half a year ago, my comprehensive exam was in February.

They asked me a few questions. They made a few comments. The feel was "Good on you" and the meeting was more "You have a lot of places you can go!" vs. "Let's navel-gaze at where you've been." I feel excited to move on. I love/ have loved school. But this chapter is over, and I have no desire to drag my feet.

I had to leave the room. I felt a pang of concern. It's strange to stand outside doors while people talk about you. I waited longer than I expected to. Wasn't it just yay or neigh? What's taking so long? Is someone asking I do more revisions of something? I stood still because I had nothing in my hands (which never happens anymore--hi, cell phones). The door opened. They said I'd be a Master. They all hugged me.

I don't usually love hugs, and this wasn't an acception. But that's fine. I know I have learned a lot in grad school, and most of it these people don't even know. That's also fine.

The library. Took this my first week of grad school.

I remember going out to dinner with my cousin when I was living in San Diego winter 2007. A strange thing. We went to a nice Italian place and one of his friends joined. We both got risoutto. Halfway through the meal she mentioned she had just finished her final grad school exam that day. I remember thinking it was an odd way to celebrate such a big thing. A rando dinner with two friends and a cousin? But now I get it. I'm here. The show must go on.

I Still Love Theatre

In my first months of grad school I never checked out of class because everything could have been the next love of my life. Now 2.5 short years later I have lost that dazzling wonder. It's not sad though. I have the same excitement. It's just channeled. I scrape the rest from the stern.

In that brush-off, there have been times I don't care anymore. I have seen so much theatre. So. Much. Theatre. Mid-semester on through to the end I'm seeing at least a show per weekend. Often two, sometimes three. And sometimes I truly don't want to be there. It's not my bag, it's been a long week, I can't enjoy what I have learned to analyze.

But ultimately I go. Because I do still love theatre as a whole, and I can't miss it. I'm grateful for the choosing I can't do in this field. With movies, books, TV--all of it--it doesn't matter. See it now, later...sometimes you don't even have to TRY. You might say, "I'll get around to it," as if it will just pop up in front of you, but then it actually probably will one July afternoon on TNT when the remote is too far away for you to change the channel anyway!

I like that even if I don't think I'll like something, it will fade away forever if I don't go today. So I go. We make lives by choosing to go. Go-ing is living, and theatre makes me go, so, like, thanks.

Second to Last Semester Bluez

I am in the middle of finals, and I hate everything. I can't believe how different my similar life feels from Fall Finals of grad school one in 2011 to Fall Finals of grad school three in 2013. Two years is a lot! Do not underestimate two years.

Do you remember every block?
Every minute of every walk we used to take?
We were young, so many years ago.

We Were Five Feet Away

He was in the first class of Intro to Screenwriting I taught
two years ago.
The shy guy who sat at the back table--
his grammar was trash, but his characters were great.
He was always so nice to me,
and I don't know why.
His name starts with a G and he also looks like a giraffe.
But I saw him today on the library lawn, and when I did my usual
smile-no-stop he did. And wanted to hear about my summer.
This kid looks the same to me, but he's been through
50% of college since I met him. And for no real reason
we intersected in the same five foot radius
on this August afternoon.
This is my third year here.
Two years ago I had no idea what was in store.
I made big fat guesses and launched without a landing pad.
I was breaths away from going to Japan instead of grad school.
Every move was life and death. Join the improv team?
Live on the corner by the Mexican grocery.
Go to the MFA parties, don't.
Snub the kisses, don't.
Accept the invite. Decline the date. Forget to eat.
Two years ago I was at a bar playing on the MFA trivia team.
We were in second place.
In a fit of "I'm a stranger in a new city who even cares!"
when the first place team was announced
I yelled an abrasive, "WHAT?" at them
because they were two dudes. And we were a table
of, like, fifteen in-pursuit of higher ed peoples.
The guys shrugged. They won. I never saw them again.
EXCEPT I DID.
It took me a full year to figure it out.
Sort of a..."Now wait a minute, we go to that bar,"
and some, "Now, WAIT, a minute, you were there that night?"
But I ended up knowing those two strangers.
The one on the left, the one five feet from me,
is now my boyfriend.

No Credit

This semester I am taking four classes, TAing two, and working part-time. Also, rehearsals for improv nationals. I was strongly invested in taking a Performing Childhood theory course with the Theatre for Youth PhDs, but I knew it was stupid to push myself just that much over the limit. I decided to audit.

So, this class is fascinating to me. And I want to get the most from this opportunity. So I'm doing all the work. It's not horrible, but it makes a difference to have a few extra hours of reading per week. To me it's worth it...I think. The other day I felt grumpy about my audit decision. "I'm doing all this for nothing."

But I'm already going to graduate with an overflow of course credit. 3 more credits won't help or hurt me. I mean, technically, if I got an A in this class my GPA would bump up...but it's not like my GPA for my DEGREE IN PLAYWRITING is going to get me places in this world. Furthermore, I might have gotten a B. And then I'd just be bitter.

It's strange to do things for no reason. We do it all the time, of course. I am sitting on my front porch because it is sunny. No one has mandated that. I read an article about feminism and the Oscars this morning. I just wanted to. Really all these classes are silly. But in the context of getting something for something, it feels strange not to. A good thing to learn though. A very good thing.

When Really It's Closer Than It Is Too Far

I KNOW I put myself here willingly, but I am miserable staring at this stupid script. And I KNOW what I am doing has no real stakes, but it does. It does. It does. If this doesn't then nothing does because this is actually something I care about and love (or at least that's what I thought at one point). I KNOW it's a made-up degree in making things up, but we made up our whole world. Every degree is made-up in making up! And every stupid degree has repercussions for the made-up careers we have! That make up our dumb careening existence!

...Okay, I can't tell if I'm arguing nihilism or the validity of the arts at this point. Whatever. MEANWHILE, there's a meat industry!

Woof. I'm listening to my "Middle Skewl" playlist today. DON'T JUDGE ME. "In Too Deep" indeed.

The faster we're falling, we're stopping and stalling.
We're running in circles again.
Just as things were lookin' up, you said it wasn't good enough,
but still we're tryin' one more time.

Making Dreams Come True

It's a double-edged sword not having a dream.

Was talking with a friend a few summers ago, and she kept referring to her future children in a factual sense. "So, you definitely want kids." I surmised. She nodded and I told her she'd be a good mom (she would). She looked down into her lap, paused, then said, "It's scary. What if I never meet the right person?" It was the first time I had considered the fear associated with having a dream. I thanked the Maine stars above us that as a gal without strong maternal instinct, I'll never feel that pressure.

We are bathed in "live your dream" and "shoot for the moon" posters in elementary school, but I know a guy who's dream was to be a pro tennis player. And at age 22, he wasn't. And, guess what? That's when you're in the best shape of your life. Dream deferred? Nah, dawg, game over.

I give thanks for my spiritual education that has taught me to seek treasures in heaven instead of the flesh. What we do is just stuff. It's who we are and how we love that fill the pitcher full. But.

Friday I told my sister how I revisited my high school blog recently and how comical my life goals were when I was 15:

"Seven things to do before death( these all are very difficult to actually accomplish)

1) find out what deja vu is

2) fall in love

3) be on SNL

4) go to state in speech or group interp

5) paint a pretty picture

6) look really hott for something important*

7) eat an entire box of chocolate while watching my favorite movies"

Embarrassing/hilarious. But, at least I'm 6 for 7...subjectively.* I mean, obviously there's one goal here that doesn't quite fit in with the others in terms of ease/lack therof...

Pookie exclaimed, "Do it! Go be on SNL!" But, one, that's not something you can just do. Two, there are formal steps I could be taking to improve my chances, but I'm not in an appropriate location for that, and I'm not going to drop out of school. And, THREE, I don't actually think that's my dream job anymore. I really don't. Each passing year edges me closer to page and further from stage. I'm no longer a performer who writes. I'm a writer who performs. Probably in terms of talent, surely in terms of preference.

There are some things I can do to keep poking at the possibility of New York sketch comedy in my future. (Oh, that's a whole other thing. I don't want to live in New York!) I can keep writing sketch (I've been distracted this semester by major focus on my newest play). I can do more stand-up. (But, it stresses me out, and it often interferes with my grading routine.)

It's not an end-all, be-all dream, so I 'm not too concerned with making end-all, be-all strides in that direction. Maybe I want to be a classroom educator forever! Maybe an English teacher! But, wait, my resume is thin. I don't have time for more English classes so I can take more writing classes.

Maybe my biggest dream is writing the Great American Play? Doubtful though. Since I'd rather go to improv rehearsal than do rewrites. It's this horrid cycle of having several key interests and no dreams. On one hand, if I have no dream, my dream can never be crushed. On the other hand, I am a hard worker and an officious person, so right now without one clear focus, I pour over lectures to give my students and don't sleep in order to edit new scenes and only break from grading long enough to show up early to improv rehearsal. Since I don't know where I'm going, every single step is make or break. You might think, "That doesn't sound so bad. We should strive to do everything well." And I agree, but doing everything you do well is different than plain doing everything. And I know this was long to read, but I've been up for hours writing and I can't even tell you why.

Hey now, hey now. This is what dreams are made of.

Terror

A staged reading of my newest play goes up in three weeks. This weekend I sent a draft as done as it could be out to potential actors, and pressing send was terrifying.

When artists talk about terror, it often sounds over-dramatic. And, it is. To an extent. But fear is fear, and, no, whether people hate or love my writing doesn't put me in life and death peril...the results of sharing art with someone who dislikes it is, in my opinion, often worse. I know because people I love have shared art with me I don't like before, and now, I don't care because I digest asteroids-worth of colleague/sketch partner/fellow comedian work, so it's same jokes different day, some good, some not. But, when I was more immature? There was a little grain of judgement I got to keep in my pocket about kids in class who wrote crappy short stories, the students in the Acting I showcase. Oh, dear God, please do not let me fall to that fate! Do not let people I respect see me as I brattily saw that dummy freshmen doing a subpar scene from Barefoot in the Park! It's childish, but I can't help it. TERROR.

It was luck that I brought Anne Bogart to work to read on downtime today. I fittingly decided to read her essay on terror, and I so needed to read this quote by Martha Graham (bolding is mine):

"There is a vitality, a life-force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unque. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you."

Read: I can do eet!

Squeezin' Life

This week is flying. This semester is. I'm planning my first mid-term paper. Gosh darn, that happened fast. This year I've been pretty good about being happy presently. I have no reason not to be. I like all the elements of my life, but there's still a tug that chants within us, "I can't wait until this is over."

I wonder why we are built this way. Because ultimately, once this semester is over, then the year, then my program, then my job, then my life. Like, the only rush is really towards death, you know? So, what's with the chip in our brains that hurries us along? Pessimistically it has to do with dissatisfaction. Optimistically it's hope--that things--even if they are grand--will alway get better.

I consciously told myself this AM that I wanted to squeeze the life out of today, and I think I did. But it still flies!

Mainly, here's something: If you are only present 20% or 50% or even 95% because you're waiting for the future, think of how much time you will have wasted if the future falls through on you. I know you know, but sometimes you have to see it in writing.

8

Last night I saw the play 8. If you don't know, 8 was "written" by Dustin Lance Black (writer of Milk) using mostly court transcripts of the appeal of Prop 8 in California. You know, the play wasn't going to move a mountain in my heart. Boulder and I talked on the way over saying, "I hope it's actually a good play. I hope there's tension, and it's not just a blatant GAY RIGHTS, GAY RIGHTS, GAY RIGHTS FOR ALL." Because if I wanted to hear that, I would just get out a Talkboy and listen to my own diatribes. I go to the theatre to be moved--even if that just means having empathy for the other side.

Well, it was pretty one-sided...but, then again, IT WAS A TRANSCRIPT OF THE COURT PROCEEDINGS. So, actually, that was pretty crazy eye-opening. Did you know the defense could not keep witnesses to save its life? There ended up being, like, one dinky witness who had any potential say in the matter. And he was proven as an insufficient witness by the end of the trial. No one with any credibility could testify against gay marriage. Lead defender Cooper's final stance in front of the judge and the State of California was that there are no reasons or facts that say gay marriage will harm our society, but the fact that we don't know what will happen is reason enough to keep prohibiting it.

And that's how Prop 8 failed.

So, while the play wasn't, like, amazeballs, it was a reminder for me--this is an issue that has no business still being an issue. We have to keep pushing.

Afterward, a couple guys in the play I knew and some other colleagues went out for froyo. A bunch of them are in a Theatre for Social Change class right now, and they just finished a lesson on ethnography and presented monologues. "You didn't present yours," someone said to one of the guys. For some reason, we all pressured him to deliver it right there, and for some reason he did, very casually.

To write it here sounds melodramatic, but this man was once a boy who liked the arts, and his father was embarrassed, and this boy who liked the arts ended up loving other men, and he was kicked out of the house, and this man grew up to be sitting in a froyo shop tearing up, others tearing up around him, talking about this. Because PREJUDICE HURTS. And that is SAD. And, sometimes it's tempting to think, "Okay, the gay issue has gone on enough. There has been progress. It's not that bad anymore." Wrong, muchachos. Keep fighting.

Major Life Update Two (of Two)

Did something I haven't done in years. I auditioned for a straight play. I read this play (Drones) last fall because I was on the Theatre Production Committee, and I fell in love immediately.

Auditioning felt like something I needed to do, but I was actually pretty scared. Not of being cut. I am swamped this semester, and it would really be pushing it to be in a show. Plus, it's not personal to be cut from a hundred person audition for a play with six parts. No, I was scared of simply...looking stupid. A fellow MFA (director) was in the audition room, and all my confidence drained right through the floor when I walked inside. I haven't been seen as an actor since college. Was I the idiot with no training waltzing oblivious to how not an actor I was?

I did alright, and the next night I got a call-back. Nice. I held my own, that's all I could want. Didn't look like a dope. Check.

Saturday I showed up at the call-back with five other MFA actors before undergrads dropped in on the scene. And I had a blast. Doing those scenes with different partners and getting direction and having A SCRIPT that I DIDN'T HAVE TO WRITE. Man, it was just fun. At this point, I'm like, "Wow. I've gotten more than I bargained for in this process, and I'm grateful."

Flash forward to yesterday when I walk into the theatre on my way to writing workshop, and, bam. Cast list up, and I'm on it. Holla holla, y'all. I'm doin' a play.

One Nation, Of Individuals (with Liberty and Justice for All)

This semester my Dramatic Writing Workshop is reading Anne Bogart's A Director Prepares. Yesterday we discussed her essay on Memory, which is largely about Americans' lack of memory (recognition) of the shoulders we're standing on when it comes to theatre. A classmate noted that visual artists learn to copy before they can create. They're constantly making art, turning around, revisiting Picasso, Degas, Rembrandt, then mimicking for a while, then facing forward again and marching on.

Playwrights don't much do this. We think it's important to know the basics, but no one holds you to it. The sentiment appears to be "There's too much"--which is kind of true--we definitely don't have as succinct a canon as art history (or maybe I'm just telling myself that because I still haven't read, say, Raisin in the Sun). Not only are we forgiving about neglecting our past, we are absolutely unforgiving when it comes to dragging it along with us. It is not good to be impersonating another writer. If possible, our work should be nothing like anyone's ever seen before. Not only is this basically impossible, if it were possible, approaching the goal of sheer uniqueness in this way is like just deciding to take a running jump off a roof and say we will be the first human to fly. We need to walk before we can run--and absolutely before we can soar.

Why are we this way? Why do we want to be so new? Why can't we stand to repeat classics, to learn from what has come before us? Bogart says it's a matter of not recognizing and using our own culture because American culture is so jumbled and illusive. You can't pin it. Are we religious? Yes and no. Are we helpful? Yes and no. Are we obnoxious? Yes and no. We're not even unanimously rich or talented or polite or impolite. We have almost no common literary background. We have no ritual. I can get behind this theory of not using our culture because we don't have one, but I think a more likely reason we don't go back and reflect what has come before us is because part of our culture...actually probably the only consistent part of our culture is being individual. We were founded because of persecution, we like to protest and riot and be free, and thus...write new new works.

Desert morning. April 2012.

Just some stuff I'm thinking about at 4 AM...which is another story.

The world shines as I cross the Macon County Line.

No Other Day!

Woke up to a text from Heart who reminded me "Today is August 23, 2012! There will be no other day quite like it."
There's something about the first day of school. Something good.

This is surreal. I flew in yesterday--met by a giant bear hug from Boulder and a dinner invite. I sit at his counter getting the gossip and watching him chop peppers for his eggplant parmesan, which is my favorite.

It's effortless to punch in my garage code, second nature to climb the stairs and drop my bags in the bedroom on the left. "I have grown," I decide, so I shove my bed into the opposite corner.

I bike to campus like I've done it hundreds of times. Because I have. Curly is on the corner of Mill & University. We embrace like we've done it two times because we have and his shoulder hits my jugular as I say, "It's good to see you" so I sound like a drunk chipmunk.

I TA. I see many a familiar face. I TA. I regress to 14 as Hill and I write summer Q & A on the backs of syllabi while the professor lectures during Sex & Violence. Class is out early, and I decide I'd like a smoothie. I run into Blue Eyes! Who hasn't eaten all day but can be persuaded to make a meal of froyo with me. I wonder what we look like--the chicadee with first day braid and the grey-haired family man, discussing Mormon youth over pomegranate non-ice cream.

First day of Senior Year 2005 with SVC & Hunny. So long ago!

So this is happening. Year two, here we go.

If I Were a Rich Girl YadaDadadadadadadadaDUM

Yesterday I had dinner with some friends from the South Loop of Chicago. They have this balcony that overlooks a kitchy old watertower, and a tiny garden, and clean sidewalks surrounding their front gate, and as I drove away I realized they could bike to Buckingham Fountain or walk to the beach or just trot on up the Magnificent Mile. I mean, okay, granted, yesterday was a really beautiful May day, so I could have probably looked at a roach in the proper light and found a sort of perfection, but f'real, I just fell in love with their home, and I had a thought that is very foreign to me:

I want to be very rich.

Pookie's first morning on her AZ visit. She woke up, and I handed her an envelope dad had sent us. It was stuffed fulla 2s.

I never wish to be rich. In fact, a lot of the time I actually thank God I am NOT very rich because I feel like I personally would have a lot of guilt-based issues if I were very rich. I already DO have a lot of guilt-based issues and I am kind of the antithesis of very rich. Still, its a lot of wear and tear on my Jimminy Cricket that I have to wonder if I hadn't ordered the 60 cent almond flavoring for my coffee last night, if I would have had a dollar for that homeless man across the street from the funeral parlor and Too Much Light theatre.

Also, I never think about being very rich because the things I generally really want don't require me to be so. You probably think I mean, like, love or something, but I really just mean that Reese's cups cost a dollar. ALSO, I never think about being very rich because it's just not bloody likely. Look at me. I'm getting a degree in playwriting. Pfft, yeah, OHKAY, I think I'll count my millions in the next lifetime.

But, yesterday, walking through the park of little yuppy kids of this fancypants neighborhood on their Cars 2 bikes, I did want to be very rich. I get it.

See, I'd have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl.

SVC* Called Me From a Cab in Brooklyn at 2 AM Last Night:

On the road to AZ. 2011.

"Do you know my parents still ask about you? They love you. My mom was worried when [I passed up a kind of cool professional job because I didn't feel like I was ready for it]. She was like, 'I hope Alice doesn't sell herself short, because she's very talented. I hope she does something instead of wasting her life'--which you're doing. Well, she didn't say that. I'm saying that."

LOL DEGREE IN PLAYWRITING!

*SVC used to be called Vince in this blog.

Hate It All

Today I feel like:

I don't have any desire to be any kind of writer.
Nothing is funny.
Comedy is frivolous.
I don't enjoy revision.
I don't enjoy ideas.
I am not creative.
I do not want to be.
Everything has been done.
Everything is also over.
I really enjoy this wind, blowing outside my window. It blew my navy polka-dot skirt up today. A stranger walked by and tried not to laugh.
Yosh made cookie Oreo brownies--AKA "slutty brownies"--and gave them to me and fellow sketchers at our Monday meeting. I wish I could have eaten the entire batch.
I did not wish I could grade these papers, do these rewrites, wander into a community, add some art, help some minds, jot things down, devise some movement, staple together some big stuff, produce a show, graduate with this degree, use it for something nice. I just don't want to. I just don't want to at all.

But tomorrow, my friends, is another day.


Appropriate. KKK sketch. 2011. (Yosh is in the get-up.)

I don't wanna job.
I don't wanna go to school.
I don't wanna job--
I've got more important things to do.

Give Me Money

Spent a large chunk of today working on scholarship applications. I hate scholarship applications so very much. It's just so hard to condense why you deserve thousands of dollars into two tiny pages. What could you say that makes someone want to give you so many moneys!?

I've written like five thou drafts. Here's my favorite opening that I will not be using:

"Sometimes you just get crushed with debilitating depression, right? Don’t you hate that? And, not to sound self-obsessed, but I think artists can really have a tough time with this, because when you’re already feeling like a sad-sack because of, oh, I don’t know, the fact that thousands of children are brought into sex trafficking daily or the truckloads of paper cups we throw into landfills everyday, someone comes along and asks, “MFA? What’s the point in getting an MFA?” YOU KNOW, STRANGER, I HADN’T CONSIDERED THAT MY DRAMATIC WRITING DEGREE MIGHT BE MEANINGLESS UNTIL YOU SAID IT JUST THEN. So, wow. Thank you. Cut to: me puffy-eyed, hacking away at revisions of my most recent play, scarfing down cookies, leaving a crumby, smudgey wake of stress eating in my bed. Soundtrack: Ani DiFranco’s saddest hits. Let the chocolate chips fall where they may. This type of occasional meltdown is unavoidable in my life, but it’s always temporary because getting my MFA is important, and I’ll tell you why."


Kath eating cookie dough in my bed. November 2011.

As much as I'll complain about these apps, they're a good exercise. In trying to convince others what you do is important, you remember that it is.

It's time to pass the hat,
and there's nothing you can do 'bout that.

Five Nice Things 1/3/2012

1. Being able to go outside without a coat in January. Specifically--being able to going running in shorts and a t-shirt mid-day and feel quite comfortable.
2. Only paying $7 to see The Descendants with your friend Chelle because it is still matinee pricing.
3. Noticing a showing of Young Adult is starting right as you are leaving the Clooney flick. Double Feature--all for $7!
4. An MFA Taco party.
5. Giving yourself the morning off fretting and writing and wasting time by doing things like reading the Scream Wikipedia for, like, 40 minutes.