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.
No Money Mo Problems 