I hardly ever blogged or tweeted about my time working for Shout! Factory because I lived in perpetual fear of ‘tweeting out of turn’ and blabbing about some project that had yet to be finalized, thus bringing about my swift termination from the company. Figuring out how much to say about one’s own project is even harder, because there’s no one to tell you whether the time has come or not.
I’ve been forced to find an alternative means of caffeination. My beloved Coffee Bean closed the location that was less than a block from my house, profoundly altering my daily schedule – in other words, I now have to put on real clothes and drive to get coffee. Technically there’s one CB that’s still within [...]
I’m not surprised. I’m hurt, frustrated, embarrassed, angry, and sad, but not surprised. After all, the reason I stopped watching House in the first place was that it was so predictable, it made me feel clairvoyant. Sure enough, the ‘asexual couple’ episode was exactly what I expected it to be.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be an actress.
Because I am who I am, I was always realistic-bordering-on-fatalistic about the whole process, assuming that I’d have to find some other job to pay the bills, but at least I could do theatre. Life took me in another direction, though whenever I have the chance to act, I always remember how much I love doing it. Aside from a lack of ambition, however, there’s another big reason I’d never have made it as an actress:
I don’t photograph well.
We’ve had a lot fun at the expense of an eradicated indigenous people, but what if this really was our last year on Earth? Sort of puts all those New Year’s Resolutions in perspective. This could very well be the last year to make promises to ourselves that we probably won’t keep.
Every year at the start of December, as predictably as finding pieces of chocolate behind the cardboard windows of an Advent calendar, I dream that my family forgets to celebrate Christmas.
If you’re a writer, you’ve heard it before – and you’ll hear it over, and over, and over again. The Write Life is frustrating, sometimes depressing, and not a career path any sane person would choose. That’s how you know you’re a writer – you don’t choose this life, it chooses you.
Yesterday I was minding my own business, turning twenty-six, when I received a strange email. My parents and I were waiting for a table at Hugo’s, and my phone buzzed for the 97th time that morning. Instead of another notification that someone had posted on my Facebook wall, I got this:
your grandmother beverly was a husband hunting woman. she did not care with whom she carried on. she broke up many homes.
It’s an increasing epidemic in my neighborhood. I don’t live in the middle of nowhere, some farm in the country where the nearest automobile is a tractor. I live in West Hollywood, a dense, urban area where people race SUVs down narrow streets and the pedestrians aren’t much better.
So when I see people walking their dogs without leashes, it makes me furious.
In order to achieve internet domination, I’ve been reliably informed that I should post something every day on this blog, which is a tall order when daily life is dull and I don’t particularly want to blog without something interesting to share.
A Valentine from Croach the Tracker of Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars fame.