I Am My Own Best Friend (and a rainbow hologram with no sex drive)

I met a close guy friend’s new girlfriend recently, and I think I like her, even though it’s unfortunately not mutual. Even though I find her a little terrifying. Even as I mentally prepare for this friend to drop out of my life for the duration of their relationship.


If he’s happy, wants to see where this goes, and shit, is finally getting laid, who am I to do anything but wish him the best?

A few drinks in at the bar, I declare I have to pee. New Girlfriend says, “Me too,” and follows me to the restaurant’s pissing quarters.

As we wash our hands side-by-side, this girl who’s barely spoken all night rapid fires a barrage of questions about how do I know her boyfriend/did we ever date/why not/did I know they’re official now with juuust enough hostility and accusation that I felt…

a little flattered.

Dang. This IG butt model and OnlyFans-treprenuer feels somehow threatened by my homely ass?


*checks out baggy, mismatched clothes, unwashed hair, and makeup-less face in the mirror*

I don’t get it, but fuck, I’ll take it.

Part of me is a little worried this bitch is into like..witchcraft n shit. Cuz the day after meeting her my car gets totaled on the freeway on my way home from a staycation.

I’m gonna go with my rational mind and say the two incidents aren’t related.

In the span of just a few days, it’s goodbye platonic friend! Goodbye car! My poor little Chevy and literal ride-or-die for the past 6 years, purchased after my previous car was also totaled by a reckless driver on the freeway.

Careful out there, people.

As I removed a hulky suitcase, yoga mat, and a bunch of random shit from my now-lifeless vehicle, I thought, “Man. Maybe I do need a life partner.”

Funny I only ever think that when faced with the immediate prospect of lifting heavy objects.

Maybe I should just work out more,

I say to myself as I lay in bed eating chocolate covered pretzels and polishing off another $5 bottle of wine.

It’s ok. Everyone needs a break sometimes. It’s been a stressful few days and plus I’m on my period…

in 3 weeks.

So, here we are. Another night alone doing nothing.

A year ago, I thought I’d be on a mad bender boning all sorts of randos to make up for lost time once things opened back up.

But alas, I upped the dosage on my birth control, and a surprise side effect is that it completely and utterly destroyed my sex drive.

It’s awesome.

I’ve never been more productive in my life. I have so much free time now that I don’t spend any chasing the D. I’m like a laundress in the Middle Ages who’s handed a washer and dryer.

Right now, you could be the most gorgeous dude alive, don a sexy fireman outfit, cuddle a puppy in your left hand and wave your dingdong in my face with your right, and I’d just shrug apathetically and think, “Hm. That is an objectively good looking man.”

I’ve tried and failed to explain this. I will literally say, “I’m on the pill. It’s killed my sex drive,” and I swear guys only hear, “I’m on the pill.”

What to do with all this newfound free time.

Duh. Binge more murder shows.

One of my sisters is incredibly sensitive to TV spoilers. She doesn’t wanna hear any comments about any episode she hasn’t yet watched. I could say, “The next episode is scary,” about a horror show where people die in every episode, and she’d feel like my insensitive comment spoiled the whole series.

It’s hard for me to remember this cuz I honestly don’t get it. You could tell me who dies before I start a show and it wouldn’t make the series any less interesting. 

I still don’t know how or when or why or how I’ll feel or how the other characters will feel or the look on their face when they die or do they come back as a ghost or will it be hilarious or painful or victorious or mysterious or touching or nonsensical or all of the above. 

Spoiler alert: 

We’re all gonna die. 

That doesn’t make my life any less exciting to live. 

Although hopefully that day doesn’t come too soon (again, careful on the roads, people). I got too much shit I wanna do. 

A psychology major friend once asked me to take a personality test reputed to be uncannily accurate. I said ok, if it doesn’t fuckin take forever, and was told to imagine the following (definitely incorrectly paraphrased) scenario.

You’re out on a grassy field. There’s a tree, a horse, and a cube. 

That’s it? 

Yup. Describe the cube. 

Easy. It’s floating a few inches off the ground on one of its corners, rotating like the Cube at Michigan.

What’s it made of? 

I dunno. Light, I guess. It’s a rainbow hologram outline of a Cube. 

Interesting. The density of the material you imagine represents your level of openness and transparency. 

Hm. Guess that checks out, as someone who published a public blog post about how many dudes I’ve slept with

How many flowers are on the field?

A bunch. The whole field is covered in flowers. 

That symbolizes how many children you wanna have. 

…The fuck. 

I told that bitch she was crazy and this test was a sham. 

I don’t fuckin want kids. Gross. 

But over the years, I’ve come to realize that may not be entirely true. 

It’s just that, instead of raising a kid in LA, I could sponsor an entire field of orphans in India. Or China. Or Kentucky. 

Bonus: I wouldn’t have to go to any kids birthday parties. I can continue to spend my Saturdays drunk watching football in my underwear. 

Double bonus: I’m fighting climate change by literally doing nothing.

Don’t you ever get lonely? 

Honestly, not often. During pandemic lockdown I unwittingly became best friends with myself. 

Sad? Maybe. 

But better than being best friends with Lamp or Roomba.

I’m lying. I don’t have a Roomba.

All in all, I highly recommend it. Being best friends with yourself, I mean. Not the Roomba. I wouldn’t know. 

I wake up every morning, look in the mirror and say (in my head, cuz you can do that when you’re talking to yourself), “Good morning, beautiful!!!! I love you sooooooo much!! Thanks for being the best partner in the entire world! How would you like to start off our day today?”

Then Me and Also Me decide whether we’d like to do some yoga and meditation, a little cardio with weights, or sit in bed sipping coffee and reading the news.

On the rare occasion that I do feel lonely, untouched, and desperate for 30-60 minutes of companionship with no attachment, I’ll hop on an app and see if anybody out there’ll pay me a few bucks to walk their dog.

Or blow them.

Just kidding. 

Better puppy cuddles than returning to dating. My rationale is this: Any big life change is likely to affect perceived levels of stress, chaos, and happiness, which together (among other factors), help determine overall quality of life.

My life as structured is very low in stress, very low in chaos, and pretty high in happiness. What are the odds my effort on the apps will lead to meeting someone who manages to add incremental happiness without simultaneously spiking levels of stress and chaos? Pretty much zero. 

Damn you, diminishing returns.

But I do support my friends’ romantic pursuits! Even if they cause them to disappear for a while. 

Back home in Oakland County, the night before Halloween was Devil’s Night. Teenagers would TP peoples’ houses. Knock over mailboxes. Run over peoples’ lawns. 

It was like a super lame version of the Purge. 

In the movie, the point of the Purge was, in a twisted way, a type of rebirth. It’s an interesting concept to me cuz it seems to suggest that nothing’s ever lost, it just comes back to you in another way at a later date. 

These past 18 months, lost in-person interaction found its way back in the form of newfound self-friendship. 

Lost sex drive comes back as gained free time to do…any number of non-sex-related activities (I need a new birth control).

In my experience, even friends who drop off for relationships have a way of coming back into your life. 

You’ll be out somewhere months or years later, having not thought about this person in forever, and you’ll randomly receive a text. 

Just one word.


And with those three letters, nothing more needs to be said, explained, or justified.

Welcome back to the single life, bro!

Me and Also Me have missed you.

Guys I did it. I peed in my neighbor’s bushes.

I’m almost done reading Untamed, which every lady in my life has been talking about for the past year. I get why. It’s magical.

Something about a woman being so profoundly honest about her potentially shameful experiences makes you feel so seen and understood.

In honor of this delightful book and Women’s History Month, here are a few of my own shameful secrets that I’ve collected over the past few years.

  1. I had a huge sobfest in the pasta aisle last week
    Sometimes delusional people tell me they want my life. Which is so ridiculous to me cuz my life consists of a whole lotta crying myself to sleep at night.

If I’m lucky enough to make it to bed. Sometimes it happens in the middle of the grocery store.

The other day I found myself openly sobbing by the canned tomatoes at Sprouts. I wouldn’t be upset if face masks covered up your entire face. It’d make crying in public so much easier. As such, I crouched down in a small ball and pretended to be examining rigatoni as I took deep, shaky breaths and tried to hide my tear-streaked face, but the old lady sniffing an orange 6-feet away from me knew what was up.

I stuck my head in the freezer, inhaled deeply that icy cold air and instantly felt better. Anyone experienced at sniffing grocery store freezers knows the air smells freshest by the meatballs.

The good thing about being frequently unemployed is you can run errands at off-peak hours so fewer people are around to witness your public breakdowns. Or hog the tasty, calming freezer air.

2. I broke up with my last semi-serious boyfriend over email
Short story kinda long, yearsss ago, and unbeknownst to the victim mentioned in the header above, I was stuck in an abusive relationship. Whenever I tried to leave, he’d make sure I didn’t through a combination of physical intimidation (wow. You’re stronger than a 5’2 woman. Good for you, bro) and emotional and psychological manipulation to make me believe I would never be able to do better than someone who’d throw me against a wall when I did something to piss him off. Which was apparently often.
Don’t ask for details. Cuz this is all I’ll say about it. One thing about sharing stuff like this is you want other people who’ve experienced it (there are a lot) to know they’re not alone. But at the same time, you don’t want any acknowledgement from anyone that they actually heard you. Cuz discussing it further opens up a hole inside you that you’re still trying to mend.
Worst thing about these experiences is that, after the physical injuries heal, the emotional ones continue to take a toll on future relationships. Nothing scares me like a man who’s emotionally invested. Or confrontations (hence breakups from a distance at which no one will be able to touch me) or presenting myself as anything less than perfect to people I date. I’m privileged to rarely feel threatened or unsafe in my day-to-day life. The only time I do?
In relationships.
The good news: karma’s real. A mutual friend went to this asshole’s wedding and told me he, piss-wasted (as I would be, so I guess we have that in common), pulled her aside and warned her to “always wear a condom.” HAHA! Turns out, he’d knocked up some poor girl and been forced into a shotgun wedding by their families. Yikes. For the sake of his new family, I hope he’s no longer a dick. But I’m not holding my breath cuz I no longer need to.

3. I peed in an orange juice carton on my driveway and watered the neighbor’s plants with it (I’m not gonna give a date in case I get arrested. But..it was..definitely..maybe at the start of this year).
Conversely, in this case, I kinda hope karma’s not real. The most embarrassing part of this is I was stone cold sober.
Our water heater burst around 1AM on 1/1/2021. Dammit. I guess I did give the date. Anyway, we spent the first night of the new year without any running water. Fuck you, 2021. But not really, cuz I’m still hoping the rest of you turns out to be magically delicious. Earlier that night, I’d drank a lot of water and I kept having to pee. But I couldn’t flush. There was so much pee I was scared I’d overflow both toilets in the apartment that I could easily access and I didn’t wanna wake up my roommate to use his toilet and pee on top of his pee cuz that’s weird and what if there’s backsplash and omg it’d smell so bad.

So clearly my only option was to dump out a bottle of orange juice and pee into it. But I didn’t wanna throw it into the dumpster and have my pee spill everywhere, so, since the dumpster happens to be placed right by my neighbors in the back unit, I poured out my pee onto their plants before disposing the bottle.

There. I said it.

I’m sorry.

But I’m not that sorry. Cuz earlier that week, one of the guys in that back unit had seen me struggling to haul our bigass, COMMUNITY, SHARED trash cans to the curb for trash pickup and just walked right by me without even offering to help. The useless piece of shit. I piss on your plants.

4. At one point in time I was boning both my roommates.

To clarify, it was never at the same time (see below under “Never Have I Ever”). And- hear me out, in the entire history of my life, of all the roommates I’ve ever had IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, I’ve only banged 2 of them. That’s not bad, right? Counting all the roommates I had in summer camp as a kid, that’s like, 6% of my total roommates. They just happened to overlap. But barely! And one of them traveled a lot, so they were hardly ever in the house at the same time. I’m justifying this as much to myself as to you all.
Both have since moved out for new jobs or relationships, but, since everyone asks, it really wasn’t ever awkward since no party was ever romantically interested. Most days I forgot we boned at all. They were just normal guy roommates whose crumbs I was constantly cleaning up and who’d see me in the same bathrobe/socks combo for 6 days straight until I finally decide it’s time for a new outfit. Maybe this is what married life is like. Occasional sex, perpetual cleaning, no effort to look or smell good.

Now that you all know my dirtiest secrets, here are a few things I haven’t done up to this point in my life.

Never Have I Ever:

  • Taken Aderall
  • Taken part in a threesome
  • Touched an adult butthole- before people dissect this, I’ve changed baby diapers and I don’t know if that counts. I also don’t wanna put too much thought into this or it’ll get even weirder.
  • Taken off my clothes for money. Except that 1 time, which was an accident. A hookup after a long night at Skeeps (s/o to Scorekeepers Ann Arbor, the best underage bar in the city), gave me cash for a cab before Ubers were a thing and it was way more than the fare, so I pocketed the rest. But it doesn’t really count cuz I didn’t plan for this to happen.
  • Taken longer than 1 hour to get ready. For anything. People who take longer than that mystify me. What are you doing in there? I find that, no matter what magic elixirs I’m rubbing or painting onto my face, body, or hair, I pretty much end up looking the same.

So that’s the short summary of my life experiences and lack thereof. Hey, guess what. Soon everyone’ll be vaccinated. And we’ve got a year’s worth of adventures to make up for.

*sniffs the frozen meatball air all around* Aahh yes. New experiences. The stuff of life.

Certain life experiences push you to grow, other ones make for a good story, and some just serve to teach you some whack ass shit. Like if something’s marked 4/$5 at the grocery store, you don’t actually have to buy 4 to get the discount, or that just because a guy yells, cries, and punches walls when you try to leave him doesn’t mean he actually likes you, that yellow-toned concealer is best on purple bruises but green provides better coverage if the bruise is red, that instead of peeing into an orange juice container and then pouring it out you could’ve just squatted right on your neighbor’s yard and saved yourself some OJ.

If you’ve ever experienced any version of anything I mentioned, you’re not alone.

But beyond that, I don’t really wanna talk about it. See you out there in the real world soon!

I’m Bored So Here’s A Chart of Everyone I’ve Ever Boned By Occupation

I suddenly and unexpectedly quit a lucrative side hustle.

The job was easy, moderately relevant to my career goals, and, for the most part, enjoyable. But new info about company leadership came to light and was handled in a deceptive, manipulative manner so directly opposed to the few moral principles I actually try to uphold, that I could only apologize to my bank account, turn in my resignation, and get tf outta there faster than you can google “NXIVM”.

As of this week, I’m officially side-hustle-free, supporting myself purely through acting jobs. It’s 3 parts thrilling and 1 part scary. But most exciting things are.

I’m spending the holiday week with my two younger sisters, both of whom hold corporate positions. As they sit on their Zoom work calls, I do cartwheels and handstands around the living room, listening to their end of conversations so I can strategically burst in and flash my pasty ass titties on the other side of camera whenever it’s their turn to present.

They’re both too nice to tell me to get a normal job. Instead, they keep encouraging me to get on TikTok. Probably so I’ll stop popping into their workspaces every afternoon, flopping down dramatically in their laps, lamenting my boredom and also are they jealous of my new fuzzy bathrobe, while they streamline data-driven processes to improve HR best practices and run analytics to optimize buying decisions for aerospace.


I spend a few hours a day dancing around to my favorite Spotify playlist, which consists solely of 90s boy bands and Clay Aiken. Clay Aiken reminds me of an era in my life that peaked at hooking up with a guy in the back of a school bus with 11 other people on it. Second greatest achievement of my life to date.

Part of me is itching to get back out there to see if I’ve still got it. But, as always, damn you, COVID.

I’ll admit, 48 hours in I mildly considered whether it was a bad choice to leave the company. I’m still freshly out of the red when it comes to my acting career. But I’ve quit more lucrative jobs before, simply because I hated it, and things have always turned out ok.

That’s me!

A Blind-Faith Quitting Machine.

Or Someone Who Sticks to Their Values.

Yea right. My moral compass is perpetually stuck on whatever feels fun and won’t disturb my conscience.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like my siblings. Besides that they have real jobs and boyfriends.

They’re so multi-talented.

One of them will sit on the couch knitting a blanket in her pjs while casually listing all the drugs she ordered from her dealer earlier that day.

The other is the most attractive person I’ve ever seen who can emit raucous, squelching fart noises from any crevice of her body at will.

I can throw up in a cup and keep boning with puke in my hair. Liquids dripping off my strands like the girl from The Ring.

I win.

Today, while my adorable sisters pored over complex Excel models, I made a chart of all the guys I’ve ever boned according to their occupational field. That I know of. I consulted a few reliable sources to fill in the blackout holes of my early 20s. The learning? There were way too many supply chain dorks and not nearly enough “I don’t know”s. Keep the mystery, people. All I need to know about you is that you’re single, disease-free, and will respect the sanctity of the safe word.

*Listed occupations are at time of first bone. I have no idea what most of these people are up to now.

I feel like I have to justify the fuckin feds.

First of all, it was an accident. I had no idea wtf DEA was. I’m a sheltered suburban kid who once feared I’d fail a drug test for a summer internship cuz I’d walked through a college hallway that smelled like marijuana the week before.

The way this guy explained it to me, he’d entered this job hoping for assignments that involved busting large drug rings, adrenaline-inducing arrests, and bringing down narcotraficantes notorios.

Instead, his job consisted of “going undercover” by sitting in his car all day spying on some dude in a sketchy area of DTLA and tailing him whenever he left his house.

This high octane mission comes to a compelling end when the guy he’s watching crosses the street, knocks on his car window and says, “Hey. Stop following me.”

It didn’t work out between us, but I hope he eventually got the adventure and excitement he was looking for. Maybe in another field.

I have more thoughts, but in the past hour I suddenly received 4 auditions and 16 pages of lines to prep for the week- the most I’ve received all year at once with production being shut down for the vast majority of it.

If there was any doubt that firmly closing the door to things that don’t feel right only causes brighter, glitterier, more magical-er doors to open, this seems to be a strong sign for me to stfu and stop worrying, quit reminiscing about guys I used to bone, put the Clay Aiken on hold for a few days, and just do the work.

Audition tapes, here I come.

Hopefully my two favorite siblings won’t complain when I don’t have time to flash them on conference calls the next few days. I’ll be busy chasing down a badass job of my own.

My Favorite Fuck-Up of All Time

One of my roommates is moving out.

A few months ago, I wrote about how great it’d be to start boning a random guy who lives across the street. In an act of what can only be described as pure serendipity, a random guy who lives across the street stumbles upon my Craigslist ad looking for a new roommate and thinks we should hang out. You know, as neighbors.

Plot twist.

He’s not single.

Plot un-twist: he’s got roommates.

The new guy moving into our apartment is a flight instructor from Oahu. I love Oahu. My first memory of the island was when I went to the Polynesian Cultural Center with my family in middle school.

Smily greeters wearing grass skirts and leis took pictures with tourists. Shirtless dudes scaled coconut trees barefoot.

As a wholesome 12 year old, it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Pretty sure that’s where I got my first ever lady boner.

Who knew half naked guys climbing trees and picking fruit could be to titillating?

But my dad quickly ruined it by saying he used to do the same thing as a kid growing up in the mountains of Taiwan, shirtless cuz he couldn’t afford shirts, fending off monkeys and wild boars with a stick to pluck a few ripe mangoes for my grandma to sell at the market for soap to use when bathing in the river.

Jeezus. How are we related.

I can barely put together a meal when all the ingredients are laid out in front of me, neatly sorted into separate glass containers. I can’t go an hour without washing my hands, let alone an entire childhood without running water. If I had to forage for food or bathe outside I would’ve given up and wasted away a long time ago. Or worse, begged to be married off to any non-forager who’d have me.

[Note to self- get right back to hustling after this so you never have to marry for money.]

I don’t really understand the purpose of marriage besides it being a nice gesture to your partner that comes with another tax filing status option (what’s the incentive not to take each other for granted when you’ve already signed a contract promising forever upfront?).

But if I do end up deciding it’s for me, I’d marry an Asian guy.


Cuz they get me. More specifically, they never give me weird looks when I ask them to take their shoes off in the house.

Why take your shoes off?


Because your shoes are effing disgusting. Have you ever stepped into a public bathroom in those babies? Have those shoes ever been out on the streets of LA, which is pretty much one large public bathroom itself, covered in dog and human excrement?

I don’t need you trailing fecal matter all over my house, and God-forbid you put your shoes up on a table, spreading poop germs where someone’ll consume their next meal. I’m not a queasy person, but I do get an aggressive urge to hurl whenever a show depicts people with their shoes on in bed.

The ultimate Lady Boner Eradicator. The opposite of being tanned, limber, and climbing a tree to save me from vitamin C deficiency.

Or maybe I’d marry my best friend from college.

In hindsight, I think he tried to come out to me freshman year by singing Beyonce loudly every time he peed. Or when he spent that Michigan 3rd & goal at the Big House arguing with one of our girlfriends about whether Mariah Carey writes her own songs.

But alas, my gaydar is non-existent. So I spent most of undergrad trying to make out with him, and was handily rejected every time.

Years later, we met up in Vegas and he introduced me to his beautiful boyfriend in the pool at EBC. As we chased rounds of tequila shots with overpriced margs under the blazing desert sun:

“Show her your thong!!” he yelled over whatever Diplo was spinning.

His boyfriend bent over, shook his perfect ass to the beat, and pulled down his wet swim trunks to expose a hot pink thong with bright, bold lettering across the waistband: TROPHY BOY

That’s it, I give up. I’ll never be able to compete with that.

I think about that thong sometimes when I’m having a bad day.

They didn’t work out, and he’s still unmarried.

I recently pitched him the idea of an open marriage where we exclusively bone other people. He told me I could be his backup.

So it’s not a “no.”

But this arrangement, to me, sounds pretty awesome. He’s super clean. I’m anal retentive.

I sanitized my airplane seats and gross ass tray tables before COVID made it a thing to do. Every Monday the doorknobs, light switches, toilets, faucet handles, remotes, kitchen appliances, and all surfaces are wiped down and the couch is sprayed with Lysol and all pillow covers are thrown in the wash, cuz I live with boys and I know guys don’t wash their hands after peeing and I don’t want dick germs over everything.

(Wow. Never woulda guessed you’re averse to dick germs.)

Shut up.

Anyway, if we got married, I’d get to come home every day to my best friend in a clean house. This guy loves feeding me, and I’d never have to worry about staying in shape or shaving my legs cuz my husband doesn’t care. We’d hang out when we want to, live our own lives when we don’t, he wouldn’t pressure me to pop out babies, and I wouldn’t stress about him cheating.

No obligations, no expectations.

What more could a girl want?

But while I wait for him to (probably not) come around, I have a career to chase.

The industry’s slowly opening back up, which means easing back into that steady diet of gut-wrenching heartbreak sprinkled with intermittent success. But the rejection doesn’t scare me anymore. I think life ultimately guides you in the direction of optimal happiness, even if that means closing doors you desperately want (need!!) opened in the moment.

My freshman year of college, besides acing my pre-reqs so I could get into the business school, I had one other goal: make Michigan’s competitive hip hop team.

People who’ve met me since then are gonna be really weirded out by this, because I never talk about it, and because I never danced sober again after tryouts that fateful fall semester.

Throughout the sweaty but exhilarating night, the group of 60 was slowly whittled down til there were 5 of us left, known just by the numbers pinned to our shirts. Up to this point, besides a few plays in elementary school, I’d never auditioned for anything in my life.

I was so. Effing. Close. And I was at least better than the guy at the very end.

This was it. As we were counted down to the final round, I mustered every ounce of energy and charisma I had left after hours of mental and physical exertion. I was killin it. I was powerful and confident and HAVING SO MUCH FUN!!

Then it happened.

Leading up to the final 8 counts, a seemingly harmless thought gently giggled its way into my head: Wouldn’t it be hilarious if you fucked it all up right now?

And just like that, my mind went blank and my body froze, everything I’d learned and rehearsed for the past who-knows-how-long-at-this-point instantly evaporating, as the 4 people around me seamlessly hit every last step. Or so I assumed. I blacked out for a few seconds.

When I came to, still standing there like an idiot after the music stopped, I didn’t wait for them to cut me. I just grabbed my shit, mumbled thanks, and walked out, regretful cuz I could’ve done better, confused about how I’d managed to lose it so quickly, and annoyed that I wasted my entire damn night.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck my stupid effing brain and its stupid effing thoughts.

2 fall semesters later, I was a junior in the business school looking to secure an internship for the following summer. I’d applied everywhere, had a mediocre GPA (turns out b-school’s hard when your mind has a tough time processing basic mathematical concepts), and internship offers seemed to be flying in left and right for everyone around me.

As a last resort, I suited up, printed out a few resumes, and reluctantly trudged across campus to a career fair. On the way, through the glass windows of the science hall, I saw them practicing. That same dance team I’d failed to make almost exactly two years ago.

I stopped and stared, running through those pivotal 8 counts of choreography that’d slipped my mind in the most make-or-break moment of my 18-year-old life, now forever seared into my brain.

I arrived at the career fair as it was winding down. Wandering the booths aimlessly, I made eye contact with a campus recruiter from a large corporate retailer. I don’t know what I said or what we talked about, but he offered me an interview on the spot.

When I arrived to interview the next day and tried to check in, I didn’t see any slots available for my assigned time. I looked closer at the sign-in tablet.

He didn’t have any more open slots by the time we met.

He interviewed me on his lunch break.

The ensuing offer led to an absolutely epic summer of blacked-out debauchery, a few minor scandals, and the most incredible new friendships. Oh yea, and I guess, gaining valuable work experience, transferable skills, and whatever other corporate buzzwords.

I went back full-time after graduation, and those few short years in Minneapolis are some of the best times of my life to date.

I can’t even begin to describe how much I love the people I met there.

For years, I’ve had one goal and one goal only, but my time in the Twin Cities is honestly one of the only life experiences I wouldn’t trade for a series regular TV contract.

And to think, none of those people would be in my life had I gotten what I wanted freshman year and ended up at practice that day instead.

When I started this career, I promised my parents I’d be a series regular within 5 years. I’m still workin on it. And every year I continue to get hundreds and hundreds of no’s. But the ‘no’s’ eventually blur together and fade into anonymity when all you need is that one yes that completely changes your life.

Despite the anguish and temporary emotional spirals, I can’t help thinking this drawn out path is life’s way of ensuring I make all the mistakes I need to make, learn all the lessons I need to learn, and cross paths with all the incredible people I’m meant to encounter.

And on that note, it’s time to go meet the neighbors.

Quarantine Diaries Part 3: Sex Dreams and Alcohol

While thumbing through my 4th grade diary recently, as one does after 6 months of quarantine, I came across a particularly interesting entry where I listed all the dumb acts committed by my then-peers.


It’s the OG Burn Book, if you will. Of course, this prompted me to look up all these people and see what they’re up to so many years later.

Not to scare anyone, but I’m pretty sure Sean P.’s now a practicing physician. Facebook also tells me he ended up at Ohio State. Giggles. How fitting that he found his way to a whole community of childhood butt pickers.

Just last week, I wouldn’t’ve bothered with that comment, cuz without CFB, any and all shit-talking seemed inconsequential.

But SURPRISE! Big 10 football’s back (until they change their mind) and I’m so, SO excited to have an outlet for my many feelings; to roll out of bed on Saturday morning and scream, laugh, mourn, cheer, and cry in front of the TV for 12 hours straight.

I wish guys would allow sports to be their main emotional outlet as well. But in my experience, nothing makes them open up like a spontaneous wasty bang sesh.

I hate it.

Like wtf. I just boned you for the price of a couple shots. You’re gonna make me listen to your freakin problems too?

You owe me more booze.

As they lay there post-coital, droning on about how they have a hard exterior cuz their brother used to beat them up as a kid or how much they miss their ex-girlfriend, I lay next to them, drunk and naked, running through some variation of the following conversation in my head.

Me: Dear God, I know this is the only time I ever talk to you. But I promise to be a
better person from now on if you get this guy to stfu and leave. 
God: You said that last time.
Me: …You’re right. Hey, if this rando’s plan is to lay here talking for the rest of our lives, which it’s starting to sound like, and I end up being stuck with him forever, could we just count this as a preemptively consummated marriage?
God: No.
Me: Ugh. But you know there was Jager involved. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.
God: It was actually Rumple Minz.
Me: WHAT??!! You saw me ripping shots of Rumple Minz and didn’t stage some sort of intervention???
God: I did. I made you leave your phone in the Uber so you wouldn’t meet up with What’s-His-Face.
Me: Oh, shit. Was I really gonna do that?
God: You were thinking about it.
Me: Ugh. He’s so hot.
God: You know he’s a terrible person.
Me: …Ugh. He’s so hot.
God: Is there anything else you remotely enjoy about him?
Me: He has a cute dog.
God: Thanks! Little guy was fun to make.
Me: Yea, really nice work with the ears. Anyway, how did I end up with this guy?
God: No idea. I turn my head for one second to check on the other drunk kids…
Me: I’m speedy.
God: You’re an idiot. I swear this is the LAST time I bail you out.
Me: Who do you swear to?
God: Myself.
Me: Power move.
God: And I need you to swear to me, too, that this will be the last time I pull a stranger out of your bed.
Me: But Godddddd! Guys do it all the time. I’d like to think RBG would be proud.
God: Are you kidding me? She fought for way more tha-
Me: HI RUTH!! How’s heaven?!!
God: Wrong religion.
Me: Rest in power, Queen!!

Guy I Just Boned: Who are you talking to?
Me: My friend Ruth. And God.

At this point they suddenly decide it’s time to go (finally), and I follow them out the door with, “Hope you get to live out your dream of being a Green Beret in Russia!” or “I’m sure your dad will call soon! There’s no way he likes his shitty stepkids more than you.” Or, if I didn’t listen to a single word they said, just a simple, “Bye!”

One time a guy wouldn’t leave until I got his name right. It took fucking forever. I hate that guy. 

Guess what his name was?


(Ru serious?) 

Yes. The fucker’s name was John.

So I guess it was really my fault for being so bad at this game. I felt so stupid I haven’t forgotten his name in 5 years.

No wonder he was so adamant I’d be able to get it in 3 tries.

Also, I’m pretty sure I’ve told this story multiple times.

I don’t have any new fun stories to tell, thanks to the Great COVID Cockblock of 2020. I just keep having recurring sex dreams about my exes. 

It was jarring the first night and now I’m largely unfazed. We’re always banging in some abandoned gas station, for some reason. I’m too scared to deep dive into that part of my psyche. 

For the record, never have I ever.

One of my girlfriends recently told me about a raunchy romp back in college with a basketball player I rooted super hard for in the Bubble (RIP Mavs). Long story short, a minor mishap led to him bleeding everywhere from his penis. But it’s what happened next that makes the story.

Get this.

He simply goes back to his dorm, cleans up his bloody schlong, then comes back to her room..and CUDDLES WITH HER ALL NIGHT!

tf. They weren’t even dating! THIS WAS A ONE-TIME HOOKUP!!

I love this man.

Since hearing this story, I’ve DM-ed this guy every night offering to make his dick bleed in exchange for cuddles, but no response yet.


Another friend recently texted a fuck buddy, “I’m craving your cock.”
His response: “Wanna go to lunch?”

And this might be the single funniest story I’ve ever heard. I can’t stop laughing about it. What a masterpiece in ambiguity.

What is he trying to do? Move her toward the “let’s start seeing each other before 2AM” Girlfriend Zone, or the “definitely not romantic cuz we’re freaking going to lunch” Friend Zone?

This needs to be a reality show.

Fuck buddies go to lunch and are forced to spend an hour together, see each other in broad daylight, and have a conversation completely sober.

After the hour, they choose to DTR or GTFO.

…Yea I totally wouldn’t watch that either.

My mind mostly consists of impractical ideas and imaginary conversations. It’s probably good that I stay away from drugs.

People are always surprised that I don’t smoke weed. And also have a great relationship with my dad.

Every time I’ve smoked it’s never done anything for me besides make me wildly paranoid. Last time I got high I made the mistake of walking to a 7-Eleven where I was stared down by an entire shelf of Furbies with their wide, white, all-knowing eyeballs.

Their childlike, mechanical voices filled my head.

“We know you’re high. We knowwww you’re highhhhh!”

I stood there staring back, whole body frozen in place, clutching a giant bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. It felt like two days before I could move again.

I haven’t smoked since.

Drugs only ever seem like a good idea when I’m spending an extended amount of time with both my parents in the same house. I’m constantly on edge waiting for the next fight to break out, knowing I’ll be approached separately by each person to vent afterward, as if my decades of indentured marriage counseling has had any impact whatsoever.

As a kid, my hideout was whichever room in the house was furthest from the warzone of the day, my escape a large stack of library books, a vivid imagination, and I guess this weird diary I kept. 

As an adult, it’s whatever alcohol I can get my hands on.

Thank God for booze.

I once dated a guy who doesn’t drink, cuz I obviously don’t know what’s good for me.

If I’ve never shown any interest in dating you, it probably means we’re great for each other. That or you’ve previously tried to date one of my sisters. That puts you in the Brother Zone. And you don’t ever move out of the Brother Zone. Incest is a no-no.

The only type of dude who fits into my life right now is one who’ll wake up early to pregame for 9AM games. We drink, cuddle, watch football, order Postmates, he gets the door so I don’t have to get off the couch, bang out a quickie during halftime, it’s quite literally…the perfect relationship.

Hmm. “Perfect relationship.” Lofty goals for someone who’s never managed to strike a balance between cold ambivalence and codependence.

But just like anything else worth waiting for in life, if it never happens for me, then it never happens. I’ll stick to my delusional optimism until it breaks me.

And maybe this’ll be the year!

I say the same thing about Michigan winning a Big 10 championship every fall.

October 24th can’t come soon enough.

In the meantime, I’ll get by on sex dreams and alcohol.

Quarantine Diaries Pt.2: My Neighbors Jerk Off and Set Their Driveway on Fire

After a loud, lengthy screaming match last night, our neighbor to the west grand finale-d the show by throwing her husband’s shit outside and setting it on fire. As of this morning, his charred, crispy underwear was still hanging over the fence.

I slept through the whole thing, but my roomates, whose bedrooms are on the west side of the apartment, witnessed the entire saga- a woman screaming at 3am, throwing things, carrying his stuff outside and finally, lighting a fire and letting that shit BURN.

Quarantine takes another one.

My room faces east, and I’m exposed to the sounds of a very different neighbor. Every night around 11:30PM, it starts- quietly building to a plateau- a monotonous, steady fap-fap-fap-fap-fapfapfapfapfapFAPFAPFAPFAPFAP.

This neighbor just moved in, replacing an older woman who liked to yell at Amazon delivery people. I’ve never met this guy, but he sounds very lonely and very bored.

I’m bored too. Especially in these past couple days the NBA has been postponed. It’s pretty much all I’ve been doing whenever I’m not recording or finding ways to support these incredible orgs. Don’t get me wrong, I support the boycott 100%. If anything, I couldn’t be prouder to get back into watching after a years-long hiatus following a years-long obsession.

Entering college, my top career choices were dermatologist, news anchor, and NBA courtside reporter.

After deeming each one of those jobs to be impossible pipe dreams, I decided to become a movie star instead.

When the league restarted a month ago, I was tasked with decorating brownies in Lakers and Clippers colors to celebrate their first game. I need it to be known that I am not a fan of either team.

But the Target by my house didn’t sell yellow, red, or blue sprinkles. So instead of driving  around the corner to Ralph’s, my dumb ass decided to buy Funfetti MIXED SPRINKLES and spend 2 and a half hours sorting each individual sprinkle into different color piles, resulting in very little personal satisfaction and a mild case of carpal tunnel.

It still hurts to type.

Me: That was stupid and a total waste of time. Why did you do that?
Also me: I dunno
Me: Are you ever gonna do something that stupid again?
Also me: Gee, I hope not. But I honestly can’t be sure.

I have the same conversation with myself after every relationship.

The irony of my current situation doesn’t escape me. I am physically trapped on either side of my home between my two perceived life options-  an eternal routine of midnight masturbation vs. relationships that literally burn to the ground.

Multiple friends have offered to set me up with their single doctor friends. Which is so kind, but also such a waste of effort. I have no interest in dating a doctor. Throw me an unemployed fuckboy instead. I get a(-n albeit messed up) sense of comfort and security from knowing we won’t be in each others’ lives long enough to ever fight.

Does the lack of genuine, deep human connection get lonely? Yes. But I’d rather be single and occasionally lonely than be in a relationship wishing I was single.

What are you doing with all that free time, loser?

Reading a new fiction novel I’m obsessed with, writing, and recording and editing audio files in my closet-workspace. Yes, I am a loser.

I tend to shit on contemporary fiction cuz all the stories are the same.

A college grad has dreams bigger than the town she grew up in, moves to a big city, pursues a big career, juggles men, and, after an awkward meet cute scenario, keeps running into the same guy in progressively sillier situations until he eventually asks her out. But plot twist! He turns out to be her new boss!

Give me a firm deadline and a bottle of tequila, and I’ll scribble out that whole story for you myself.

Writing is such a funny process. The previous draft of this blog, before my neighbor decided to light her driveway on fire, was all about eating ass. Why is everyone so obsessed with it?

The one time a guy surprised me by sticking his face in my butthole, I lurched forward so violently I almost crashed through my headboard.

When did that become a thing? My germaphobic ass just can’t understand the thrill of putting your nose up someone’s poop chute.

Call me a prude, but I once ****ed a *** *** with my ****.

It was weird. One of the few things in life I can say with absolute certainty I will probably never do again.

But I’ll discuss this more in a future post.

I’ve received enough updates from friends who’ve ventured back on the apps to know that dating still sucks and must still be avoided at all costs.

If I’m destined to find love, it’s gonna have to fall straight into my lap.

Like, some guy moves in across the street. We make eye contact one morning while dragging our trash cans to the curb for garbage day.

I say, “Good morning. You’re hot. Wanna bone?”

He looks me up and down in my fuzzy bathrobe, hesitates, then shrugs. “Meh, sure. But we should wash our hands first.”

We do it, it’s adequate, he doesn’t murder me or sneak a nose dive into my anus.

And thus begins the story of our happily ever after. No pressure, no preamble, no courtship involved.

Yea. I guess that sounds pretty bleak.

But there are 20 million different things in the world that can make people happy, and one person doesn’t need access to all 20 million things in order to be happy.

Romantic relationships are just one of those things.

Plus, I got other shit to do.

Voiceover has actually been taking up a ton of my time in quarantine. I recently signed a contract that, in the first 20 hours, paid more than my annual salary first year out of college.

It’s been awesome. But this job was the result of 300+ auditions, which means hundreds of hours in the recording booth, not knowing whether the effort was ever gonna amount to anything. Also, if the client opts not to re-up, then I’m right back in the poorhouse.

I’ve also been doing a little writing.

At the request of someone whose work I think is awesome, I started writing a TV pilot. I’m not done yet, but I already know it’s the shit.

The thing is, I’ve never aspired to be a TV writer. And it’s certainly nothing like writing this, where I can type up whatever pops into my head without any thought given to plot, character arc, or structure. So pretty much, I have no idea what to do with it once I’m done.

Ready for the logline?

Here it is:
Mia needs to get laid. Coronavirus killed her once thriving hookup game and, to make things worse, she’s quarantined with two perfect couples. Life is unfair. She decides to cure her loneliness by venturing online to find some cock, but instead connects with someone who might just convince her that there’s more to life than scoring dick.

I have the utmost confidence that no one will be able to tell this story like I can. And it’s my opinion that the best stories are ones that sound stupid on paper.

I don’t know what’ll happen with this script. I don’t know what’ll happen with this voiceover job. What’ll happen in the next few days, months, hell, the rest of 2020 or this so-far whack ass decade.

But one thing that is predictable: tonight, like every night, I’ll lie in bed at 11:30PM while my neighbor whacks it, giggling into my pillow like the dirty pervert I am until the monotonous, repetitive fapping lulls me to sleep.

Quarantine Diaries Pt. 1: Dark Times

I conclude my weekly meeting with the VP of Planning and gather all the nonsensical line graphs I’d created out of made-up data 5 minutes prior.

My VP stands behind his desk, smiles, and declares,

“In 5 years, you’ll be running this company!”

I imagine holding a gun to my head, right there in his office.

I flash the same toothy grin I’d eventually use everyday in my next career.

“Can’t wait!”

then walk back to my desk to take mindless internet quizzes until it’s time for lunch.

When I first moved to LA, I got absolutely everything I ever wanted. I made more money than I knew what to do with at a corporate job that required no brain power whatsoever. One weekend, in the midst of my routine weekly blackout somewhere along Hermosa Pier, I (apparently) gave some dude my number and realized when I met up with him the next day that he was hot af.

I couldn’t believe my string of luck. I was literally a blind, blacked out squirrel who’d managed to find a nut without even trying. Or rather, two nuts that belonged to one seriously gorgeous man.

A year later, both the job and the guy had made me so effing miserable and caused so many anxiety-ridden sleepless nights sobbing alone in a dark corner of my (stunning, 3rd story, marina-front) bedroom that I was forced to make the (somehow still) seemingly insane decision to leave them both.

Yes. I had a corner of my bedroom specifically designated for crying.

Talk about a quarter-life crisis. 

The universe had handed me everything I wanted- and was ever taught to want- on a silver platter, just to turn around and laugh as I waded through the mucky confusion and unexpected torment of my newfound reality and yell, “THIS IS WHAT YOU SAID YOU WANTED, YA DUMB BITCH!! PWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAH!” before cockslapping me in the face with the medium-sized weiner of a beautiful man with no substance.

I’d never felt more catfished by life! I felt like a character in my favorite Goosebumps book as a kid. The girl in the story got 3 wishes and, as they were granted in succession, each made her life progressively worse.

We all know where I landed in terms of career choice. But I’ve learned my lesson on men, too.

I only date ugly guys now.

Jk. But that’s a safe go-to, single friends, if anyone asks why you’re not interested.

I feel bad for any guy who sleeps with me these days (pre-quarantine, of course). I send them out the door the following morning with a high five and thumbs up, and then they gotta wait months for a new blog post to maybe learn how I feel about them.

Each time I think, “There’s no way this random ass dude knows about or actually reads this blog,” and I write whatever I want if I haven’t already forgotten about them by the time I get around to writing.

And each time I learn that yes. Yes, indeed he did manage to somehow stumble across this blog and he’s got some questions about my comments.

Most guys are great. “Great” meaning at least deserving of the hungover, semi-enthusiastic high five they receive on their way out. And some guys are super great. Except for that oneeeee little thing you wish you could change.

Like that guy whose dick game is A++. The proof-that-magic-is-real, leaves-you-grinning, head-spinning, rehash-in-graphic-detail-at-bachelorette-parties kinda dick game.


He also has the derpiest voice you’ve ever heard. Like if Mike Tyson and Kermit sucked helium together.

So whenever he tries to talk dirty you cover his mouth and command him to shut up with all the authority your own squeaky ass voice can muster, so for a moment you sound like 2 chipmunks humping.

And he thinks it’s super hot when you tell him what to do. But you don’t mean like, “Shut up and break me.” It’s more like, “Please, for the love of God DO NOT SPEAK or I’ll feel like I’m fucking a Muppet baby.”

So close yet so far from perfection.

But quarantine has, for me, as it has for many of my single peers, brought upon a dry spell.

And, speaking only for myself, that actually hasn’t been a bad thing.

These days, instead of wasting my time on boys, I’m practicing meditation, taking online courses, revisiting the glorious contents of my dusty bookshelf, and, oh yea- making it a goal to eat a salad once a day.

Apparently, it’s “good for your body.” 

The thing is, I fucking hate salad. Carbs are so much better for my soul.

When the salad alarm goes off on my phone, I sigh loudly and dramatically, begrudgingly trudge to the kitchen, angrily pile a bunch of vegetables into a Tupperware, dump a crapload of dressing on it, cover it up tightly with the lid, and mix it all up by shaking the shit out of that damn salad.

Like, aggressively trying to mutilate all the vegetables inside that fuckin Tupperware, getting sick glee from watching the juices violently splatter onto the sides of the container.

Lastly, I pour on a crapload of croutons and bacon bits to hide the taste of nutrition, then stand back to admire and maybe even eat my creation.

Zoom calls with my favorite people have also become routine, although this activity doesn’t turn me into an unhinged psycho. So far on these calls, 5 of my girlfriends have announced they’re pregnant.

How exciting! I love babies.

But I also find the idea of growing a human inside me to be absolutely repulsive.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s cute and sweet and precious when anybody else does it.

But a life form inside me stealing all my hard-earned, gross-tasting vegetable nutrients? Making me feel sick and permanently destroying my body for its own benefit?

Sounds like a parasite.

I’m good. I’ll play with everyone else’s kids once they’ve grown out of that ugly newborn phase and developed real faces.

Then give them back once they start to get annoying.

A few months ago, I was playing a babysitter on a shoot with 8 toddlers at a daycare center, with the off-screen assistance of a couple ADs and all the children’s parents.

Even with all the help, I hope to never do that again. On “Action,” the girls sat nicely as directed, calmly coloring and looking at picture books, while the boys threw containers of food across the room, growled, ate stuff off the floor like they hadn’t been fed in a week, pushed each other and me, and knocked over kiddie furniture like mini savages.

It was horrifying. We were indoors, yet they somehow managed to be covered in dirt and grime after 3 takes.

The most unsettling part of it was how unfazed their parents were by their feral behavior.

18 years is a big commitment.

The only thing to which I can pledge that degree of dedication is my career. Besides the 3 days a month where I burst out over my balcony and scream, “FUCK THIS SHITTTT I’M DOONNNNEEEE!!!!!!” for all the neighbors to hear.

They’ve stopped reacting.

Some days the only thing keeping me in the game is knowing that no other job out there would make me remotely happy.

So I guess I can be miserable at a job I hate or miserable pursuing a life I want.


Who needs a boyfriend when your life choices fuck you daily.

Sometimes I think back to my short-lived stint in the corporate world. And, despite the dependable paychecks, I’m still glad to be out of a rat race in which it was no longer gratifying to partake and whose rewards I no longer coveted.

The decision to dramatically reroute my life didn’t come on a whim. It was forcibly and reluctantly made after months of overwhelming cognitive dissonance. The kind that keeps you awake at night thinking about what your life could be if you trusted yourself enough to step away from what’s comfortable and familiar and lean into the temporary unknown long enough to come out on the other side.

We’ve all been simultaneously plunged into a strange, awkward, unfamiliar situation, albeit not by choice. Good news is, everyone you know is along for the ride. It’s a weird paradox that we’re all forced to be separate together.

Nobody wanted this.

But then again, sometimes getting exactly what you want ends up sucking ass anyway.

Keep your Zoom buddies close and an extra bottle of wine even closer.

There’s no better time to build up that tolerance for when live, in-person group drinking events are once again a thing. I refuse to survive a pandemic just to die from over-celebrating once they let us out.

Bet we can set a record for World’s Longest Pregame if we start now.

Dating and Dooty Calls

This weekend I had my first ever daytime booty call. Or “dooty call,” if you will.

Him: U up?
Me: …Yea. It’s 11AM.
Him: I’ll be there in 45 minutes.

Guess this is happening.

Did I brush my teeth this morning? I eat a couple Thin Mints, just in case.

I can’t remember the last time I made out with a guy sober. I’m self-conscious about my body, awkward with his belt buckle, and worried about my breath.

I hate this.

Goddamn you, sobriety. You ruin everything.

This particular dude tends to tell me he loves me multiple times per bone sesh. I wish he wouldn’t. It’s so hard not to laugh.

Whenever boys profess their feelings, I have to fight not to roll my eyes in annoyance that they could be so irresponsible with their own hearts to catch feelings for someone obviously riddled with crippling intimacy issues that make it impossible to trust or commit. That or they’re lying.

But in this case I believe him. I’m even flattered. Hell, this guy drove all the way from Mid-City to Redondo Beach for me knowing he has to be in Hollywood 2 hours later. Show me a man who’ll put in more effort!

But actually don’t. Cuz I’m unavailable.

See, I’m already in a love-hate relationship with the Entertainment Industry. Right now he’s treating me like shit. But I’m gonna stick around to see if he’ll change cuz I don’t have any other options lined up.

I can’t imagine swiping on the apps simultaneously. I’d be crying all the time.

Plus, dating is sorta my job.

Your agent, or matchmaker, gets you an appointment for an audition- a first date. You read the specs of the audition. Holy shit, this show and role sound PERFECT for you! This is your soul mate. THIS is the one you’ve been waiting for. Game over. You’re off the market. This. Is. THE. ONE.

Your first date is an audition to be together for the rest of your lives- or, at least, the duration of the series. After your 10-minute long date, you get a “Nice job,” from the casting director. Did they mean it? Is this what they say to everyone? Were they just trying to get me to leave? Maybe they actually meant that I did a nice job and they’ll reach out after 48 hours to tell me they like me and ask me out on a second date!

48 hours comes and goes. Then 72. Then whatever 72+24 more hours is.

You don’t hear, “It’s not gonna work out between us,” or even, “It’s not me, it’s you.” You don’t hear anything.

Straight up ghosted.

You’re left to wonder, “What could I have done differently? Did my hair look bad? Is it because I fumbled that one line? Did I smile too much and look creepy? Are they seeing someone else?”

The answer to that last question is always Yes. Yes they are. And that someone else is likely prettier, funnier, and more talented than you are.

This mindfucking and second-guessing goes on until you find out a couple weeks later from Variety or Deadline that they have indeed, as you suspected, proposed to someone else.

You struck out, Romeo. Time to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart and move on.


My friends keep telling me I’d be perfect for The Bachelor.

“You’d be so funny to watch!”

Homies. I’m already on The Bachelor. I’ve been on The Bachelor for 5 years. The industry is the Bachelor, dating 30-40 of us at the same time while we all clamor at his feet, hoping to get a rose after every date so we can stay in the running for another week and ultimately earn that bigass Neil Lane diamond, AKA a series regular contract that promises $23K+ per episode.

Maybe if I start treating the Entertainment Industry as a fuck buddy I don’t care about instead of a potential future husband he’ll profess his love for me too.

When I first moved to LA I was super enthralled by the Venice Beach Freakshow, which ran on the Venice Beach Pier until a few years ago. But once you’ve lived in LA long enough, you don’t bat an eye at seeing someone with 100 piercings on their face, a bearded lady who can bench 4 times her body weight, or even a guy shoving a power drill up his nose.

The only real freaks in LA are people who are genuinely happy and well-adjusted.

I met a person like that a few months ago. My acting teacher.

A smily, fun, always-positive human being.

I’d be, too, if I had this guy’s life! He runs a successful acting studio, does what he loves for a living, coaching students and celebrities on their acting roles, and is married to a beautiful woman who runs the studio with him.

After class one night he pulls me aside and says, “You have the brightest smile! It lights up the room. Don’t ever lose that.”

I’m elated. I love this guy. I smile the largest smile I’ve ever smiled in my entire life. “I WON’T!!!!,” I promise him way too loudly.

Fuck. He’s so awesome. I wanna be this guy.

A few weeks later an email goes out to all the students at his studio.

He’d killed himself over the weekend.

Welcome to LA, where everybody’s fucked up or faking it.

When I started in the industry, I also took on a regular yoga practice to ground and center myself so I’d be better able to adapt to change and inconsistency. Plus, staying focused and in-shape is part of the job.

Over the years, I’ve gotten stronger and more flexible. But some days the entire practice is challenging. I can’t balance, everything hurts, I barely hear the teacher’s instructions cuz my mind’s on the million things I have to do after class, and I can’t hold a pose to save my life.

On those days, I feel like everyone in the room is watching and judging me, laughing in their minds about how much I suck.

“What is that girl even doing in this class? We’re all tall, sexy Instagram models and she’s terrible. She’s not even wearing Alo!”

But I manage to take a moment to step back from being an insecure narcissist and look around. I realize everyone’s struggling to hold the pose. People are panting, wiping off sweat pooling from their foreheads. Falling out of the pose. Some try to get back in. Others have given up completely and rest in child’s pose.

Everyone’s struggling. And no one’s looking at me.

Bitch, it ain’t about you! NONE OF THIS IS ABOUT YOU!

A friend sent me an article years ago about shit sandwiches. I was just getting started in the industry- no agents, no bookings, no money coming in but a lotta money going out (for headshots, classes, casting sites- this business is an expensive hobby til you book).

Everyone’s gotta eat a shit sandwich, no matter what you choose to do with your life. What flavor would you like yours to be?

Though this industry sucks at times, it’s the only thing I’ve found to be worth eating shit for. And I do. Frequently. You can say it’s been my primary diet for the past 5 years. Lots and lots of shit.

But maybe if I eat enough shit sandwiches the shit eventually turns into Nutella.

That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

And though I haven’t landed that series regular contract yet, I make enough from commercials, print, and voiceover to pay the bills and party.

I rewatch last week’s episode of The Bachelor to remind myself that my life is actually pretty awesome. Then drag myself off the couch to go get ready.

I’ve got a date.

I Make Out with My Roommate Next to a Group of Dancing Shirtless Cowboys

It went down at a gay bar called Flaming Saddles.

After all these years of belligerence, I’ve finally met someone who’s a sloppier drunk than I am. As I witnessed my 22-year-old roommate stumbling around, eyes half open, drink in hand, so incoherent that other bar patrons were actively avoiding him, I gained insight into exactly how the world saw me every Friday and Saturday night in my early 20s.

At one point he pulls me aside, looks me straight in the forehead, and says, “I think I love you.”


Bombshell confession.

The first time a guy’s popped the L-word in close to a decade and it comes from one whose eyes keep rolling into the back of his skull.

We make out to “Old Town Road” as two half naked cowboys swing on ropes overhead.

The next morning, I text him a high five from the next room and spend the rest of the day intermittently puping.

“Puping? What’s that?”

Well, Little Sally, “puping” is when you puke and poop at the same time. And you gotta spread your legs real wide on the toilet seat and suck in your ribs to dip your head down between your thighs, giving yourself the greatest chance of making a clean hurl into the toilet bowl while your butthole contracts, but you probably miss and end up getting a strange mixture of your insides running down both your legs.

The only way to cap off a productive night of irresponsible behavior.


You gotta really emphasize the “u” or the word loses half its meaning.

On another topic, I recently booked a new role I’m pumped about.

A smiley, bubbly yogi whose whole entire life is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

I’m really trying to stretch myself as an artist.

Jk. Fuck that.

I realized the more I got into this career that acting is not at all about pretending to be someone else and all about accepting yourself exactly as you are, puping, bad decisions and all.

After all, this is Hollywood, son. You beat out 2500 contenders every time you book. If they want a version of you who’s taller, bitchier, or less promiscuous, they’ll find it.

That’s what I love so much about all this. When I’m completely uninhibited in my daily life, people call me weird or tell me I’m drunk. And while I concur with the first statement and the second is usually true, when I display that exact same inhibition on camera I’m told I’m “genuine”. Fuck yea I am. Genuinely hammered.

The less you think, the more purely instinctual your reaction, the better the take. It’s the only job in the world where if you’re ever questioned why you did something at work, “Because I felt like it,” is not only a justifiable response, but, arguably, the ideal answer.

IT’S SO FUN!!! Totally worth showing up to auditions every time knowing the odds will never be in your favor.

It’s easy to talk about how much I love the industry when I come off a booking. But you gotta love it in your low points too. I just don’t talk about them much cuz I’m holed up in my room being antisocial. The last thing I want in those times is any human interaction where someone might ask me how “the acting thing” is going.



But that emotional episode was last week.

At a wrap party for my most recent project, the director dropped some wise words when I told her about making out with my roommate:

“Guys are just as dumb at 32 as they are at 22 so there’s really no difference.”

I stared at her dumbfounded, mouth agape, racking my brain for examples of men in my own life that could refute such a bleak outlook, only to come up short.

My mind exploded and my uterus contracted as a whole new age range of men opened up to me.

I took her advice and hooked up with another Gen Z-er.

It was fun in a barely legal kind of way.

I’m disgusting.

This guy looked like Nick Carter in his prime, gold chain and all, minus the mushroom cut.

But I might have reached too far into the cradle for this one. It’s jarring, the epiphany that you might naturally sprout more body hair than the man currently inside of you.

You think, “Oh, he’s young! He can probably go all night! HELLLLL YEAAA,” and pat yourself on the back figuratively and also literally, because you do yoga and you’re flexible enough to touch your own back. But then it turns out this strapping young steed actually CAN go all night, and you realize you really just want a guy who will go for 20 minutes then roll over and fall asleep so you can do the same. Maybe repeat in a couple hours.

To the subject of this story, I sincerely hope you haven’t found my blog. I want so badly to believe you didn’t pull all that freaky ass shit just to get a write-up. But I’m probably wrong plus honestly who cares. You get a high five for a fun time.

And $20 you had to google Nick Carter.

I’m retiring from younger men. This grandma can’t hang. I need my 9 hours a night so I can keep getting cast in roles 10 years younger than I really am.

“Why don’t you pursue a real romantic connection instead of just drunkenly hooking up with randos like some sad, pathetic, emotionally damaged lowlife?”

Well, all the guys my age are emotionally unavailable or married and thus unavailable or married and cheating on their wives, which, in the name of sisterhood, I’m unable to enable.

But there are some good ones out there.

A friend in college knew her boyfriend was the one when he was going down on her one night and she ripped a loudass fart.

There was deafening silence in the aftermath as the dust settled. Then…

Get this.


Yes, friends. This is not some erotic fantasy girl porn. This actually happened.

She literally farted straight into this guy’s open mouth and he took it like a champ.


The two are now happily married, while I continue my search for a guy willing to pay for the first date.

See, I know this career is for me because this industry could break my heart a thousand times over and I’d never stop pursuing it. I don’t feel the same about boys.

Unlike my on-camera endeavors, I feel less free to be me when I’m tied to a man. I just wanna be happily in charge of my own life.

Sure, I’ve made some terrible decisions, but they were my decisions, they were all fun, and I’d probably do it all again.

Oh shit. New epiphany. I haven’t matured a day since 22.

I Pick Up Boys Like I Pick Up Dog Poop

A model I met on a recent shoot found my blog and asked to take me out on a date so I could roast him in a future post like all the other guys.

a) I feel weird shitting on anyone who actually reads my writing, and
b) I’ve sworn off male models, precisely because they’re the type that would ask someone they just met to write about them.

Although this one looks like Corbin Bleu, fulfilling my High School Musical fantasies of yesteryear, and appears to be able to read with relative ease.
While I can’t spare any more brain cells to slaughter on dates with male models, I will write this:

Poor Man’s Corbin Bleu- I have to commend you on dat tight ass bod. Your abs, the only thing interesting about your Instagram, are the exact tint and definition of a slightly burnt, crispy Belgian waffle, each square chiseled and sculpted to perfection. As with waffles of any variety, I get the urge to pour hot syrup into every ridge and crack and find a way to get that sweet, juicy liquid all over my face.

But I never order waffles cuz they’re the most boring option on the menu.

My first attempt at erotica! Tell me what you guys think.

Jk. I don’t care.

Also, really hoping I never randomly see this guy on set again cuz that’d just be fuckin awkward.

For my own sanity, I choose to live on the westside, away from the entertainment hub and, with very few exceptions, most people I spend my personal time with aren’t involved with the industry at all.

My only complaint about non-industry people is that they’re constantly asking me how much I make.

“I saw you on [insert currently airing on-camera project]! Congrats! How much money did you make?”

Jesus Christ. I’m pretty sure you’d never casually ask anyone else how much they make. Much less toss it out there directly after, “Congrats!” as if it’s the conversational equivalent of, “Is it a boy or a girl?”

How much I make depends on the month. Last month, I sat on my ass and submitted photos of my face and footage of my work to currently casting on-camera projects, got booked directly off my materials, and earned enough to pay my mortgage for the next few months, all while hanging out on the couch in my bathrobe watching Big Little Lies.

This month I had a couple auditions that went horribly shitty and now I’m kicking myself for all the money I spent buying myself celebration gifts.

Most of my friends with normal jobs think I work on set as an extra and a few seem to think I’m actually famous. As someone who walks a solid middle ground between the two, I can say both views are incredibly humbling.

Around LA, I get recognized more for this blog than I do for my on-camera work. I don’t mind.

“Why don’t you write for money?”

I do, actually. I blog for a website offering advice to people who want to break into entertainment. But I’m rethinking this gig since an editor added the word “zeitgeist” into my last essay and published it without consulting me.

I hate that word. Each syllable is a stab to the eardrum.

But screw the art. Do it for the money.

In between on-camera gigs, another one of my side hustles is hanging out with dogs. Cuz I generally love dogs and people in LA shell out mad cash to make sure their dogs are well taken care of.

Last week I got to stay at a big ass beach house and babysit 7 puppies. I say “babysit” and not “dogsit” cuz I’m convinced LA dogs cost more than most babies.

I spent much of my day picking up turds of varying consistencies while juggling all their separate medication and feeding schedules (one takes CBD oil every morning for anxiety, another one is on pills for a UTI, one needs coconut oil rubbed on her crotch daily).

During a peaceful cuddle sesh on the couch, my favorite one of them all projectile vomited her raw, gluten-free, organic dinner all over me and looked super cute while doing it. She’s made for Hollywood.

But these unexpected challenges are things you embrace out of love.

Which is why I can only handle it for a week at a time.

My first night staying at the beach house I had a nightmare that I married an ex.

Inspired by a convo that took place earlier in the day about the final, legendary multi-million dollar Mardi Gras-themed Christmas party for Spacex employees, I dreamed we had our wedding reception at a massive warehouse in similar fashion with lavish amounts of alcohol, hundreds of people I didn’t know, and…fuckin clowns.

No, not people acting stupid. Actual clowns. They appear in many of my nightmares.

But what terrified me in the midst of this dream wasn’t the clowns. It was that, during this supposed reception, the familiar feeling of dread congealed into a heavy lump behind my breastbone, then surged up to constrict my throat before plummeting rapidly down my torso culminating in an emphatic punch to my stomach.

I know it well cuz this exact same visceral reaction happens immediately after I commit to any relationship.

Fuck. What the fuck did I just do? I don’t wanna be married.


Also, who paid for this reception? And who the fuck hired clowns?

I start desperately seeking an exit, sprinting my way down dark winding warehouse hallways that lead nowhere, pushing past hoards of faceless bacchants showered in confetti, sweating profusely, the lump of dread in my stomach growing larger and the constriction in my throat getting tighter and tighter and TIGHTER-

…until I feel something wet and soft lick my face.

I startle awake, sweating and panting. I have never been happier to be woken up at 5:30AM by a bed full of puppies as the soft sound of oscillating ocean waves gently washes through the window behind me.

Relationship nightmares aside, my week with the pups reminded me why I’ve never wanted to be the next Bachelorette. I couldn’t walk through the door without a hoard of creatures aggressively demanding my attention, barking, clawing, biting each other and me to be the one or two that I take out at a time.

It’s stressful, guilt-inducing, and sometimes they pee on me- all things I hate about dating.

As someone old enough that most of her friends are married, with no relationship prospects of her own, and who spends more time looking for jobs than actually working, I’m a huge and utter failure by most societal standards.

But for some reason I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I look forward to Mondays so much more than Fridays. I love that I don’t know what each week will bring. A jackpot booking and ensuing massive payday? 5 auditions and zero bookings? No auditions at all cuz NOBODY GIVES A FUCK ABOUT YOU YOU’LL NEVER MAKE IT IN THIS INDUSTRY YOU DELUSIONAL BITCH!!

At this point, that thought doesn’t phase me either.

Cuz the high points don’t last, but neither will the dry spells.

The career dry spells, anyway.

To getting paid and getting laid!

Just avoid the male models.