Our Top Story Tonight: A 22-Year-Old Makes Dinner and it's Not That Great

Has anyone else kept waking up and thinking to themselves, "All right, it's finally the week of Thanksgiving!"? Because I have been doing that every week for the past three months. Seems kind of sacrilegious to not have better tabs on the beloved anniversary of that day when the pilgrims first shat on the Native Americans' sand castle, but at least I remember when Jesus was born. After all, how could anyone forget the significance of Memorial Day?

This is all very well due to the fact that I'm visiting home for Thanksgiving for the first time since... before graduation. I'm accepting the fact that I've now reached that stage in my life where going home has to have some kind of purpose attached to it. I can't just randomly flit down to San Diego all willy-nilly anymore. Or, perhaps I could, but I don't... mostly because of my packed schedule, and a little bit because I can't shake the notion that the city of Oceanside should throw a massive parade every time I make the commute down there. It's a big "plan" for me to go to San Diego now, so when I arrive I want my money's worth, damn it! But alas, my friends all have lives and jobs now. And since I have one or both of those things, it's harder for me, too. It's a hassle to coordinate. I'm learning that this is what being an adult is: having to "pencil in" arrangements for fun but not get to actually have full-force-fun because you have too much un-fun happening in the near future to enjoy the moment. I could've sworn I heard something about this before...

Maybe if she spent less time dancing on her parents' beachside property and more time looking for a job....

With the job transition and subsequent reintroduction to "days off," I do get to go out and have fun-- plenty of it, actually. But it's never no-strings-attached fun. My life has more strings than a CostCo case of tampons.

I don't know exactly how I landed on that marvelous little simile, but let's move on with this one-sided conversation we call a blog. I made a great discovery recently, namely that a writer's meet up group I was looking at attending takes place a mere 7 minutes from my place of work.

 

This one was pretty different from the other one I attended which, as you may have noticed, I didn't have much to say about. The first one was... aight... I guess... but the attendance was low, it took place in the un-cozy part of a Panera, and people didn't seem much interested in talking or sharing. This one I went to yesterday was exactly not all those things. The turn out was close to 20 people or so, all of whom were very friendly and welcoming. For a $5 donation fee you got wine, snacks, and access to a wonderful little community of writers at a cute-ass Santa Monica sandwich joint. I worked on my spec script for 2 solid hours, a period of writing time I usually only ever spend on my blog because I take the time to select the perfect design for my glitter graphics. It's really an art. The plaid in the HUZZAH says, "I'm glamorous, but I also have a deep respect for my Scottish heritage."

Right, Paddy O'Alcoholicdog?

In summary, I think I've found my new "group." Another nice thing about them is that they seem to meet far more consistently than the other group, about twice a week as opposed to once every three weeks-or-whenever-enough-people-remember. So hooray for finding the right means to get my writing back on track. It took a five dollar fee and a club someone else started to make it happen, but it's progress.

I'ma be real honest with you guys right now. Like real honest.


My collar bone is my best physical feature.


But aside from that, I'm also tired and spacey (like the Kevin!) and I feel like my mind is swirling in a nightmarish torrent of neon-lit screens. My job is to type and stare at things all day, so by the time I land on the only typing and staring activity I actually want to do on Tuesday nights, it's like feeding mashed carrots to a child in a high chair. It would maybe be okay with just the computer aspect, but it's phones, too. Like constantly. I mean, I'm not trying to offend anyone by not responding to the photo of the tuna sandwich they made for lunch, but seriously, Instagram was created expressly so you could display your sandwich and maintain the satisfactory illusion that anyone else in the world cares, without anyone else in the world actually caring. Everyone wins that way.

Yup, I'm already becoming an old fart who is badgered by technology. Though I was raised on dial-up, so technically I think that's still okay.

But seriously you guys... what happened to my dinner. I burned the chickpeas while simultaneously overcooking the potatoes so I started making pasta instead, but then I couldn't fully commit to the idea of getting rid of the chickpeas and potatoes so I mixed them into the pasta and poured sauce on it. And then for whatever reason I decided to throw liquid smoke* in there at the last second. What the fuck am I eating?

*VIP blog exclusive feature you won't read about anywhere else: I accidentally squirted liquid smoke in my eyes. It stung.