I’m at a house somewhere in Santa Monica writing on a computer that’s not mine in a house I’ve never been in before while stee works on a pitch in the next room with a man I’ve never met before. And that’s why we have Blogger.
We had some car problems right when we met each other mid-meetings today, so I’m sitting quietly in the other room during his meeting now, and then he’ll take me early to work later and then pick me up again tonight. I’m already planning how to walk to rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. You know, because things weren’t already stressful enough. As stee tries to get his car fixed, I realized today that I have to get a smog check before I can get my car registration renewed. Also: it’s been raining all week and my windsheild wipers have decided to stop working. Huzzah! Yes, yes. I know. When it rains, it pours.
I basically had ten minutes to grab any belongings I needed for the next fifteen hours, and decided lugging around a laptop wasn’t going to do me any good in the long run. I’m glad I remembered my phone charger, as my phone died ten minutes after we left the house.
Wow. I’m officially babbling to you guys while I stall, because I’ve run out of things I can do in this back room and stay quiet. Can’t return calls, can’t work on memorizing a monologue, and I have to pee. As long as I have to pee, I’m not going to be any good at working on this pitch I need to hash out this afternoon. In fact, when I have to pee like this (where’s the bathroom? I have no idea. I’m betting it’s on the other side of the room where they’re working), the only thing I can do is type. Fast. Like this. Hi.
I have to pee. Hi. Man, I have to pee.
It’s classy times like these that I remember I’m a professional writer.
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