Remember when I used to write for fun? That was fun.
A friend I still like, but rarely see, once said she could gauge my love life by how often I wrote here. This scared the shit out of me. Everything is exciting and colorful and pretty. On Saturday night HER/LA, the feminist pop up festival I’ve been planning with Laura, took place in hollywood. The event sold out days before and we made over 2k, plus $500 in bar tips that we donated to our friend’s childrens charity. It was… Amazing. Stressful. Scary. Overwhelming. Kinda made me wanna scream at everyone and get drunk. Event planning is probably not my calling. I don’t like answering common sense questions. I only speak in declarative sentences and this makes some people uncomfortable. I respond to passive aggression with flat out aggression.
But when it was good, it was really good. Like when Morgan twirled me around in front of the band while the crowd watch, envious of how little we cared about looking cool. Or when Lauren pulled me into the soundbooth to make out. Or climbing up a ladder and looking down on the crowd with Lauren and Laura. Yes, I threw an event with blonde Laura and brough bawt Lauren as a date and hung out with brunette Laura. We’ll call them bae Lauren, blonde Laura, and brunette Laura for clarity.
Lauren whispers sweet nothings into my ear and wants to fuck me 8 times a day. Even when I want to watch netflix. Sometimes when we’re kissing and I pause for breathe and she beams. No one smiles like Lauren. Like all she feels is joy. Like I’m what makes her happiest. Like I hold a candle to her. She was the perfect date, standing by my side when I needed affection, chatting easily with everyone when I was running around, impressing them all with her poise, beauty, sweetness. Everyone likes Lauren. Lauren leaves for a month in May. I don’t know what will happen.
Last week I woke up in Lauren’s bed but she wasn’t beside me. She was laying on the floor in a white t shirt sketching with charcoal. Sketching me. “You’re up” she said with that Lauren grin and brought me tea and kissed me for hours. We climbed on the roof and watched Echo Park come to life. It was nice.
None of the roommate applicants really appealed to me, so I settled on renting the room to a nice french guy who is interning at universal until july. Silver lining I won’t be stuck with anyone loathsome. Shit lining I have to do this again in June.
In June I turn 26. My health insurance will run out. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Bad things are going to happen. Again. Bad things always happen. Then good. Then bad. Then good. Then bad. It’s exhausting. I am exhausted. No matter how beautiful my friends and fucks and romance are, the niggling realities of survival and omnipresent possibility of not making ends meet keep my mind from ever being truly at ease.
I rewrote my script but it still wasn’t good enough. Everyone says I’m good but good isn’t good enough. I am not enough. Saturday was a triumph, the prom I never had. In 4 months I wrote 2 scripts. People like my articles. The best girl in the world likes me a stupid amount. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. That’s the problem with me. That’s the best part of me. That’s going to be the end of me.