Serious Dental Problems

Good thing: My landlady took me on the morning walk/jog of my LIFE yesterday.

Bad thing: And now my legs are sore.

Good thing: But at least I didn't feel as bad stuffing my face at Passover dinner last night.

Bad thing: I stuffed my face at Passover dinner last night.

Good thing: I stuffed my face full of matzoh balls and charoset at Passover dinner last night.

Charoset, I said.

Monday was a great evening filled with ooey-Jewy fun. At least, as fun as family dinners can get-- and in particular ones that involve everyone reading a book before dinner. Fortunately I come from a long line of people who mask their boredom and hunger-impatience with really painful jokes.

Part the Red Sea? More like clear the room.

Since you're probably not Jewish I won't bore you with the details of Passover, but I would like to take this opportunity to announce that I am now allowed to sit at the adults table, where I drink irresponsible amounts of my uncle's vintage wine when he isn't looking. To make an extremely inside Jew-joke: I am The Wicked Child.

Moving on to less Semitic topics, I'd like to give the latest weekend update. On Sunday I attended the LA Times Festival of Books which is held annually on the USC campus.

It offers no surprises. The end.

One cool thing is that the wonderful people from my old work had a booth set up there and I got to swing by to say hello-- I even got a free copy of my former boss's book! At a glance it seems to involve samurais and/or ninjas. I'm sure it's at least partly autobiographical.

So on the hour-long drive home this evening, a song came on that I very fondly associate with this past summer. Thinking about the summer made me think about now, and thinking about now made  me freak out a little bit since I just realized it's been nearly 11 months since I graduated college. Please excuse me while I wander into one of my mini existential  ponderings and reflect on the fact that I've been an adult for almost a year. Specifically, this kind of adult:

But with more teeth, hair, and baby fat.

We associate certain feelings and dispositions with certain periods of our life, and hearing this one song made me feel like May-August 2013. In trying to pin down exactly what that feeling was, it was like consensual free-falling. I felt so lost and detached from the heaviness of being one-who-makes-a-living, and it felt truly stupendous. I had finally slayed senior year, and although I knew something even more challenging and horrific was coming up in the future, I had so little grasp of what that might be that I just couldn't bring myself to fret over it. Or, I did every now and then, but usually only when I spoke to relatives on the phone or paid more than $7 for a meal. Generally speaking, I was blissful. Incredibly blissful. I didn't know you could experience that kind of peace and happiness beyond the age of eight (1999 was a great year to be me).

So where are we now?

Not San Diego.

This will be difficult to explain, and even more difficult to explain when we reach the official "Where The Ever-Living Fuck Was Jessica One Year Ago?" post (coming soon to a free blog hosting site near YOU!). But if I could be brief (too late), I've reached a sort of stability for the time being. One thing I'll say for stability is that it's pretty damn boring. Not to suggest I feel like I'm in a rut-- far from it. But the little Change-and-Wonderment sprites haven't been sprinkling their little glitter buckets over things as often. Work, for instance, has long since been a new and interesting thing. It went from being exciting (I'm working in the industry! I'm paying for designer coffee! I've developed a phone voice!), to excruciating (I'm doing everything wrong! I'm tired! I have money but no time to buy groceries!), to somewhere in between (I'm working in the industry!). Right now it sort of feels like I've been going to the dentist everyday for the past four months. It still hurts when they poke my gums with those little metal hooks but at this point I'm used to it, and I've developed a legitimate taste for fluoride tooth cleaner. You know the kind.

What I'm more or less trying to say with my very innocuous metaphor is that whole notion of "settling" into a way of life has, unsurprisingly, settled upon me unconsciously. I sense a definite routine, and yet I still feel like I'm stumbling from one day to the next. It's not good or bad, though I do a pretty great job of wording it in the most negative way possible. I just wonder at what age you stop feeling like a life-n00b.

Anyway, I think to wrap things up, routine is a never-ending dentist appointment, or something like that.

Take it away, Steve!

Wheely Fun Weekend

I'm putting it on the record that I initially began this blog with, "Wazzap party people!" stared at it for a few moments, and then erased it. My punishment is public cyber-self-shaming, but the reward for not actually posting is a slightly more interesting opener.

Speaking of slightly more interesting, it was very much a "Look At Me I Live In LA" weekend for me and I know you're just dying to read about it.

Statement meant to be read ominously in the month of October.

I embarked on the bi-annual bi-cycling event CicLAvia, where the City of Los Angeles shuts down a few major streets to cars and grants sole access to bicyclists, walkers, and any aberrations of the two. It's a county-wide marathon that lasts for one day, because if it went on any longer car commuters would probably go insane and drive into the ocean. On most days, I would be one of these drivers (also, the babysitter said that's how you become a mermaid). However, with my new Channubicycle, I was able to fully embrace the event and bike down Wilshire like it was nobody's business. It felt like this:

"You biked a marathon?" You may be thinking. "Either you're lying or I have to reassess how attractive I remember you being."

Well, don't look me up on OKCupid just yet-- I only look for dates on Craigslist. Besides, I'm far from what you'd call "a biker," as in one who rides bikes for the enjoyment of physical activity. I only ride my bike short distances, and if it's not to get to the grocery store faster then it's only because I enjoy the idea of enjoying physical activity. Trust me, I tried track, gymnastics, surfing, swimming, and for one very depressing JV tryout, tennis. Did not work. I would be very happy for me if I had a single strand of DNA encoded for athletics, but it would seem I'm doomed to be a lethargic artist. That's okay, at least I'm really good at organizing things in my pantry.

The point being, Ciclavia was a fluke in all-that-is-Jessica... and as it turns out, a pretty fun one! I biked 7-something miles each way down Wilshire with Casey and my roommate, who is the embodiment of "a biker." If they ever pass legislature making it legal to marry bicycles, my roommate will be first in line at the courthouse.

Yes, that was just another way of saying, "If you love your bike so much why don't you marry it?"

Along with Casey, roomie, and myself were hundreds if not thousands of other Angelenos peddling 
and promenading from 1 Wilshire to Miracle Mile and back. Behold:

Are you beholding?

My roommate is actually in this picture; if you spot him you get a taffy.

As it turns out, the actual act of biking down the middle of one of the busiest main streets in Los Angeles was half the fun. All along the way people were playing music, hosting special events in their restaurants, setting up food and drink carts along the sidelines, and even conducting Chocopie eating contests, which we witnessed in Koreatown. Also, we got these sick fannypacks:

Coincidentally, "sick fannypack" is also the name I give when ordering at Starbucks.

The route was far from rigorous, mostly flat with a few minor inclines and declines and exlines and outlines. It was, however, about 3 hours of biking. Of course, I'm not factoring in the point at which the three of us stopped at a cafe and had lunch before getting back on our bikes to finish the loop. Yup, I'm a pretty hardcore marathoner.

ABRUPT END OF BLOG BECAUSE I DECIDED I'M DONE TYPING

So a Group of Writers Walk Into a Bar...

Hello there. You may notice that my voice sounds a little scratchy tonight. And no, it's not from smoking imported cigars with refined mustachioed gentlemen. I'll smoke those bitches under the table without blinking an eye.*

*Has never smoked a single cigar or cigarette.

No, my throat is actually sore because I swallowed a miniature pine cone on a dare.

[[dramatic pause]]

You think I'm joking?

[[another dramatic pause]]

Do you?

[[tertiary dramatic pause]]

Yes, I am joking. The real reason is that I inhaled pepper spray.

[[dramatic pause]]

Is she kidding? Is she serious? We don't know!

[[small undramatic pause]]

No, that is the actual answer. On Monday evening I inhaled pepper spray at Sonny McLean's in Santa Monica.

The events of the evening unfolded as such:

[[[[commence blogging]]]]

My Monday evening began in typical fashion, with me clinging to my final breaths of life as I emerged from the catacombs of an 8.75-hour workday with no lunch period or breaks. I arrived at Bagel Nosh promptly at 6:59pm for my weekly Writer's Blok meetup, where $5 buys you two hours of focused writing, the company of friendly fellow-writers, quietly looped Pinback albums, book giveaways, all the coffee you want, and nearly all the wine you want but it always runs out before the third glass. And, if you're me, you get the added bonus of being tragically cornered each week by a dude you initially thought might be a good networking opportunity but it turns out he's just a complete weirdo.

(Remember, folks: if anyone has more than two points to make about your astrological sign, get out of that conversation fast.)

An important Brule to remember.

This was a particularly significant Writer's Blok because it was our last meeting before taking a three week break for... for reasons, of some kind. It was a good last-until-three-weeks-from-now meeting. I got to read my stuff out loud, AND wonderful people brought baked goods from home... they didn't even have meth in them! I'll admit I was disappointed, but they were still delicious.

IT'S SO GOOD I WANT TO CLAW MY SKIN OFF

After the meeting ended, some of us headed nine blocks up to grab drinks at Sonny's, a wonderful Irish pub that restored my faith in white people. That is, until a couple hours in when our buzzed, geeky, and endearingly awkward conversations were all halted by a major scuffle happening at the front of the bar. I turned and saw a pair of muscular arms wrestle what looked like a welder in a blonde wig.

At first it was hard to see what was going on because everything was happening so quickly... but then it was because my eyes were tearing up. "Avoid that side of the bar!" someone shouted. And I heard murmurs of "pepper spray" ping-pong around the bar. I distinctly remember laughing about pepper spray to someone in the group and then suddenly choking to the point where I abandoned my beer and stood outside until I could stop coughing.

I have no way of knowing the full story, but the version I heard was that this... formidable... woman was drunk, got overly defensive, and whipped out some good ol' fashioned pepper spray on whoever was telling her to get her shit together. At least, I sincerely hope that's what it was, and not anything that would legitimately warrant pepper spray. That would've made the experience quite the downer. But once the woman was out and the bar owners let some fresh air in, we resumed our drinking and picked up right where we left off on our delightful evening.

I'm proud to say that this was my first time being exposed to pepper spray. It was just like losing my virginity, with less tears and slightly less choking. More importantly, however, it was a great memory for the Writer's Blok. Over the past few months my writing group has been as much about the group as it has about the writing, and for someone plagued by the paranoia that city life is dominated by isolation and hostility, that is a major reassurance to find. We're just a bunch of strangers who united over a common cause. Kind of gives "grammar nazi" a whole new meaning.

One of the things I love most about this group is the emphasis on setting goals. I may not have my group over the next few weeks, but I'll still have my goals. Until we meet again at the 'Nosh, I suppose I'll try to exercise the kind of discipline expected of a writer who doesn't need to be tempted by wine and baked goods. My goal: continue to write for two hours every Monday evening.

...At least until principal photography begins, when I'll fall down the open storm drain of film production. But I will emerge stronger, wiser, and riding a wild sewer gator.

FOUND: A Lazy Writer Who Writes About Writing

So I didn't post yesterday because I had a shitty work day and decided I'd rather up my endorphin count by hanging out with Casey after I got off. We ate raw vegan food and watched One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. When these two things make you happier than when you were at work, you know it was a rough day.

I was trying to of what to write about tonight... I kind of bounce among my safe little pool of topics:

- Being a young adult
- Living in LA
- Being a young adult in LA
- Having a job
- Having a job in entertainment
- Being a writer
- Being a writer in LA
- The Free Masons

So tonight let's talk a bit about being a writer in LA.

Any other post about this topic will probably be a gratuitous heap of depression and negativity, but I'm keeping it light tonight. Party because I don't feel like pretending to be depressed, and partly because I want to make sure I have enough time to watch an episode of "House of Cards" before bed tonight. Seriously, I just started watching... Kevin Spacey is and always will be the world's hottest guy-who's-more-than-fifteen-years-older-than-you.

Spacin' out

Tonight I'm going to kill two birds with one stone on this blog. See, as a "writer in LA" it's my job to go out and send my spec script to the batch of tv writing fellowship programs that open for submission around the spring. I've already submitted to the Nickelodeon TV Writing program, but I've been severely putting off looking up the deadlines of the others for no particular reason. Which I believe is the textbook definition of laziness.

I'll post the programs here so that you know what I'm looking to do, and I'll know what I should be doing. This is mutually beneficial for anyone else out there who is as remotely wrapped up in my life as I am. Although it is also beneficial to other writers I'm competing against... ho hum.

Here they be:

1. Nickelodeon Television Writing Program - Already submitted to. You basically get to play writer for a year at Nick Studios. They pay you to shadow your idols. I'll take that to go, garcon.

2. Disney ABC Writing Program - Submission period unknown. The submission period has never once been posted online in the 237 times I've checked over the last 9 months. I guess if they're offering to help me network with successful writers/producers, let me write on a show for a year, and pay me nearly double what I currently make, they can post the submission period whenever the hell they want. I'll be standing by creepily waiting to hand them a manila envelope containing a script and about 10 ounces of glitter.

Assuming that's the proper unit of measurement for glitter.

3. Writers on the Verge - Submission period May 1-May 30. A chance for me to compete with much more experienced/successful writers for the privilege of being able to say that you write for a living.

4. WB Writers' Workshop - Submission period May-May 31. A once-a-week writing workshop with Warner Bros. So I can still do other things technically... it's always been my dream to be a couch salesman by day and TV writer by night.

5. CBS' Writer Mentoring Program - Submission period March 1-May 31. Wait... I need a pilot episode already?!

6. Late Night Writers' Workshop - Jan 10-24, 2014. Missed it 'cause I'm a moron and didn't know it existed until doing a little research just a minute ago. I now have a full year to think about my choices.

That's it.

This post took about as long to write as a usual post... and about 1/100th as entertaining. Now THAT's conservation of energy.

I Would Bike Five Hundred Bars, and I Would Bike Five Hundred More

Everyone knows that bicycles are a healthy, eco-friendly mode of transportation.

What you don't know is that bicycles are actually hormonally-injected genetically mutated unicycles.

Disgusting.

And what you also might not know is that bikes are great for bar hopping! Bike-hopping. Bar-biking. Barbecue. Barbie. Sexism. Who are you again?

This is what I did this past weekend with Casey and her roommate. Saturday afternoon Casey and I sojourned out to Pasadena to get her a new bike, since her old bike had flower stickers on the side and no working gears. I was eager to make more use of the one I got this past Channukah. So far I haven't been able to use it much, because I work 11 hours a day and on the weekends I wear a shirt that reads "LAZY FUCK" under all my clothing.

I am happy to report that during this past weekend, not only was I a productive fuck- I was a productive drunk, too! In the morning I biked around town getting groceries and running miscellaneous errands, but once night descended onto the unsuspecting bike lanes of Los Angeles, Casey, her roomie and I took to the streets like ravenous hyenas in search of booze.

On bicycles.

Okay, I know what you're thinking.

     


                            Wheels + Alcohol - Coordination =







But you've got the equation all wrong. It's actually






                                       Wheels + Alcohol - Fucks = 




Taking your bike on a bar excursion is actually wonderful for several reasons. You don't have to look for parking, you don't have to pay for parking (more beer!), your bike is right outside the bar where there's more than enough foot traffic to ward off thieves, and best of all, at no point are you getting behind the wheel of a car with alcohol in your system.

Now, granted that none of us were truly smashed, but bicycling after a few drinks was hardly treacherous. It was actually insanely fun and about as easy to maneuver as any other bikeventure. I admit I had reservations at first. Before the evening began I was certain that one of us would topple over and eat it. But the old mantra about bikes proved true: once you learn, you never forget. Some part of me was convinced we'd regress to five-year-olds once we had booze in our systems. But thinking about it, I don't turn five when I drink. I turn into a sarcastic and overly-emotional thirteen-year-old. And I knew how to ride a bike when I was thirteen.

We planned the evening out right. Biking meant that we had to remain relatively local, so we left Casey's apartment and rode about 20 minutes away to Silverlake. What we chose to do was ride to the furthest point and work back the way we came. The only downside to this plan was the uphill-ness coming back. Fortunately it was not steep at all, and even in my most sober state I just randomly click the gears around like a silly baboon until I find a setting that works.

So where did we go on our magical Tour d' Silverlake?

I'm glad you asked, slightly larger font.

Our first stop was the enchanting 4100 Bar.

Come wearing your finest PJs and/or belly-dancing skirt.

I imagine they had to go with the name "4100 Bar" for fear of what kind of crowd "Sexy Blanket Fort Fun Palace" would attract. But with the low warm lighting, intimate atmosphere, and abundance of tapestries draped from the ceilings and walls, this place promised a lot more intrigue and wonderment than the outside, which is a small black building with some dude grilling carne asada in the parking lot. Drinks ranged from affordable to I'm-a-paid-actor, and the bar played lots of 90s grunge... though I think that's because there was a juke box, in which case the real reason to go is for the odds of striking up a conversation with whoever payed to play five consecutive Nirvana tracks.

A few blocks up on Sunset Blvd. we reached Malo.

Not tu madre's cantina.

Malo was... mas o menos. It was a little more conventional and a lot less dive-y than 4100. It had a trendy lounge sort of feel to it, but Mexican themed. When you put the two together your end up with $12 guacamole and horchata-based mix drinks.  A "nice" bar, but coming from an English major them's fightin' words. Nonetheless I have to say: horchata with rum--?! Next house party I know exactly what two things I'm bringing and not sharing.

Our final liquor pit stop of the evening was Tiki Ti.

AKA my college dorm... both in size and in style.

It's JUST that awesome, you guys. Tiki Ti is a tiki-tiny little bar on border of Silverlake and Los Feliz. It's essentially a Polynesian-looking box filled with wondrous treasures. For starters, I mean, look at that photo. This is what we're dealing with. The whole thing is the size of my apartment, and I live inside a laundry hamper. If you can manage to get your party inside with their tight one-in-one-out entrance policy, you are in for a treat. The walls and ceiling are packed with Pacific Island decorations and knick-knacks, ranging from puffer fish light fixtures to unsettling sociopath-mermaid figurines. You'd think that's the main event, but then they hand you a drink menu. Holy humuhumunukunukuapua'a. It's a list of about 75 different mix drinks with crazy titles and zero descriptions. You have the choice of either asking the bartender or chancing it. Ultimately, no matter which drink I asked about, the little fruity-sugar alcoholic in my head tugged on my earlobe and shrieked, "That one! We're doing that one!" I ended up getting a Chief Lamu Lamu and a Space Pilot, both of which were ten layers of delicious. Be forewarned that Tiki Ti's drinks run in the $9-$20 range apiece, but for a special night out (or a night of generally low inhibitions) this is a place that you have to visit. It's also supposedly one of the oldest bars in LA, so if you need "historical significance" to justify it then be my guest.

After leaving Tiki Ti we made our way home in about 10-15 minutes, where we ate grilled cheese sandwiches with the utmost orderly conduct and self-restraint.

Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez

Final verdict: will I bicycle bar hop again? Ab-cycle-utely!

...a bit of a stretch on that one.

Yes, I fully intend to. As long as I'm able to avoid a BUI, which are as real as they are admittedly hilarious.

Gerry-Meandering

So after a grand total of 3 days of shitty weather we're back to pretending like Winter never happened. All right, California.

Tonight I'd like to discuss ever so briefly (because I just spent the past two hours teaching a high schooler how to lie about her aspirations and I am BEAT) my triple-dip weekend.

That's right, I chewed tobacco with people of three different nationalities.

...But I also spent the weekend in three different counties: Los Angeles, Orange, and San Diego. I visited one of my very closest friends who recently moved to Huntington Beach in Orange County, spent one crazy birthday night in San Diego's downtown Gaslamp district, and bought groceries and went to the bank in Los Angeles.

Firstly, just to get the educational portion of this blog out of the way, please refer to the following map which labels some (but for whatever reason not all) Southern California counties:

San Bernadino accurately depicted as a large space containing absolutely nothing.

Los Angeles: Where I live
San Diego: Where I'm from
Orange: Disneyland

With my move to LA and subsequent awareness of my immediate surroundings, I found this to be an insightful opportunity to look at the nature of these three places. Now, this post deserves a lot more time and cocaine than I'm giving it, but I at least wanted to touch on some of the differences I noticed within the great, beautiful county-centipede we call the South Coast.

I choose to do so in the form of a stream of conscious adjectives. Like a regular Virginia Woolf.

SPOILER ALERT: She's actually a snail.

H'okay.

So.

Orange County

I managed to crop out the CVS's in the four corners of this photo.

Calm

Average

Accepting

Neighborly

Breathable

Family-friendly

Mellow

Non-egotistical 

Mature

I visited my friend's apartment, the beach, a Wahoo's, and found parking at all three places. Orange County is just really good at taking a load off my mind. With the exception of a few boug-y patches it is considerably tamer than the two metropolises Eiffel Towering either side of it, and I appreciate that calm. Visiting Huntington Beach certainly made me blow a kiss to Oceanside... the overall hassle-ness of LA beaches like Santa Monica and Malibu has made me incredibly cynical about beaches that aren't ones I grew up around. So, for the Angeleno willing to trade in the LA designer tag for something more comfortable and affordable, there is Orange County.

San Diego

Complimentary sailboats for all hotel patrons.

Glitter-sandy

Crisp

Colorful

Groomed

Confident

Self-loving

Naiive
Smiley

As someone raised in San Diego I have a much better idea of the nuances that go with each city within the county, so I'm reflecting on just the downtown area. Growing up, I never visited the Gaslamp much for several reasons (poor, underage, reclusive, scared of one-way streets), but coming back after living on the crispy edge of DTLA, it's interesting to see San Diego's take on "urban cityscape." The first thing I noticed was that it is very polished and well-kempt. Now, living in LA I've been trained to be filled with dread and anxiety in these sorts of areas. There will be lots of traffic, no parking, overpriced parking, and lots of bars and restaurants I can't afford but will be forced to eat/drink at and pretend I have the disposable income to do so just so I can save face in front of people who are all just as poor. San Diego is maybe 25% of that, tops. DTSD has a lot of things nailed; namely the look, the busy-but-not-gonna-be-an-ass-hole-about-it vibe, and the bang for your buck. I was not at all stressed driving or being in downtown, and I could even sort of afford the places we hit up. It was swell. The one thing I will say is that DTSD is a total baby compared to DTLA. LA is fierce. San Diego is small and virginal. I don't know if San Diegans not from LA are aware of that. To reference the highly relevant and topical show Rugrats, DTSD is Chuckie and DTLA is Angelica. Except in this scenario Chuckie is a hot surfer.

And Orange County is Tommy. Or else Dill.

And finally...

Los Angeles

Celestial sunset or fire and brimstone?

Dirty

Gritty

Glamorous

Impressive

Kooky

Energetic

Chaotic

Systematic

Arrogant

Tough-loving

Passionate

Jaded

My tri-polar assessment of LA is obviously indicative of the reality of the place. LA is just a fuckin' mish-mash. It's the world's most expensive and desirable Hometown Buffet. In as much a literal as a poetically profound sense, LA has everything; you just have to be willing to put up with a lot of shit to get it.

There's an Alumnus Among Us

As this past weekend was the final week of pledging for the society (co-ed un-douchey less-rapey fraternity) I joined at Whittier, I realized it was a particularly school-heavy week for me. I was elected this semester as one of our society's "alumni advisors," aka society members who take up the noble duty of coming to campus every now and then with advice in the form of cheap 30-racks. I'm a newbie so I got a 12-rack... but hey, I could've done much worse than Tecate.

We use the term "much" very loosely around here.

Anyhow, the end of pledging is a special time. Alumni get an excuse to get together with the active members and drink and hang out and mainly bond over the fact that we're not as miserable as the pledges. It's tons of fun. Even more fun than drinking Tang.

But it's a very strange experience to become an alumni. This is my first time "on the other side," and I gotta say, it's not so much a side as a different plane in the time-space continuum.

Save this picture on your computer so you can appreciate the clever file name I gave it.

Like, remember when you were an awkward kind of chubby 16 year old who wore lime green cheetah leggings everyday and you had a crush on a 20 year old and you were all like, "Hey man, I don't see what the big deal is! Age doesn't matter!" And then as time passed you eventually blossomed into an awkward kind of chubby 20 year old and you were like, "Wow, if I were dating a 16 year old now I wouldn't even want me living in my neighborhood. This is supposed to be a safe community!"

Well, going back to college and doing college-y things sort of feels like that. I didn't experience it too badly because I'm fresh-faced enough that my presence on campus is still relevant. Also, this event is made to be alumni-friendly. But in a year or two my college friends will graduate and be replaced by a crop of kids who give as few shits about me as I did about alumni when I was in school, and hanging around will almost certainly guarantee that I grow a skeevy mullet and handlebar mustache. Trying to keep myself wedged in that community feels... weird.

Now, I remember as a college student that I didn't think much of older alumni coming around... only the exceptionally weird ones who were more reckless than half of my currently-enrolled friends. And the 40-something dude with the belly button piercing. It didn't really strike me as odd that I was in the presence of, say, a 27-year-old who had graduated five years prior. But you spend a few months out of school and all of a sudden the difference is like apples and tax consultants. I think the biggest difference is priorities... I mean shit, I haven't had to write a thesis in nearly 6 months.

AND IT FEELS GREAT

People were so stressed out about writing papers, and making it to dinner on time, and hitting the best house parties, and getting up early for intramural water polo practice... all of a sudden I was so hyper-aware of the fact that I hadn't thought about any of these things once since May. And on the flipsies, if I attempted to talk about my work or my current what-doings with college people what I usually got in response was either blank stares or polite nods. After all, why should they care? Not even other regular faux-grown-ups are really interested, so why should college students? They still have active social lives and excuses to own feather boas.

The key to every and all theme parties.

In all honesty, I'm probably being a little over-dramatic about this ordeal. I didn't feel extremely uncomfortable, just a little nagged by the feeling. 90% of the time was spent hanging out with other alumni anyway. Kudos to the currently enrolly-pollies who were the exception to this rule; you make coming around worth my emotional investment.

I think I'm bracing myself for the much harsher reality I'll have to face a couple years down the line when college is in no way home. I got a little sample spoon of the feeling this year, but I've still got a whole grip of amazing friends in the one-to-three-years-younger than me range to still make me feel loved and welcomed and accepted. You know what that means- I've got one-to-three years to set up my little social network throughout LA county. So far I'm off to a roaring start with an email from a crazy old vegan dude named Star.

And people diss Craigslist for being sketchy.

He wants to go hiking sometime.