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Running in Los Angeles

Nobody really knows how out of shape they are until they challenge the beating sun. Hiking in Utah is difficult; hiking in Los Angeles mid-afternoon is impossible. It’s like the prelude to a baptism where you confess to the person next to you, the trail, God or the universe all the things you ate that led to this very moment right before you purge yourself of all your stomach’s contents. Your explosive vomit is then followed by a moment of personal self-reflection (now you’ve shut up): why did I eat left over pizza for breakfast? That’s not FUEL! My body’s like a car and it needs fuel to make it up this mountain.

Los Angeles kind of runs the same way as Runyon canyon. You’ve got to be ready for the fast lane because people are speeding and there’s no slowing down or turning around. It’s exhilirating–and I admit, exhausting. I’ve listened to podcasts (www.nerdist.com the writer’s panel or Riki Lindhome) and have taken their advice and applied to the types of entry-level jobs that can lead somewhere in within the part of the industry that excites me, but I haven’t received many calls back. It’s about producing your own work here. It’s extremely competitive and one can’t wait for a call back. I’ve got 3 novels, 1 spec, and 2  pilots for a television series I have come up with on the back burner, and a hell of a lot of Emerson (Self-Reliance) and Rilke (Letters to a Young Poet) on my nightstand.

Today I was certain I had pink eye. I finally got around to looking at myself in the mirror at like 8pm. My eyes looked like shattered glass. I catalogued all the horrible possibilities that could have led to this: the instant feces entered my eye. Poop. My sister dropped her nasty cat off for a night to have a break from his eccentricities. He is keenly aware my room is off-limits (thus making it a space he yearns to explore), and I left the door open for ONE or TWO seconds and he managed to slip by undetected. I see him a few minutes later, perched at the foot of my bed, challenging me with his wild eyes–so did he sit on my pillow? Did I shake a homeless person’s hand by accident on Hollywood Blvd? It’s easy to mistake them for tourists. Everyone dresses pretty gross, blappy hair that hasn’t been washed in days from the damaged frizz caused by all the dye jobs, the tattooed necks, arms, and legs, boxers that barely pass as shorts, the stinky, sticky look of West Hollywood. I finally calmed down from my panic and realized I had spent NINE hours in front of my laptop busting out my novel. I had protein bar wrappers and apple skins all over my bed (yes, I HATE apple peels. They give me goosebumps when I bite into them). I don’t care if the peel is 60% of the fiber–that’s what Fiber Blends are for. So, no pink eye.

The best part of today? Nine hours at my last job felt like an eternity. Nine hours working for myself felt like a breeze.

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