I missed work today because my car is still being held hostage by the LAPD.

Greg and I took a fieldtrip downtown to the UPS so we could pick up a package. It took thirty minutes to get there and then another thirty once we got there, but the prize at the end was an iPod case surprise from Sidnia. It is green and has a dinosaur on it and says "STEGOSAURUS." It's basically fantastic, and reminds me that, in reality, I am eight.

On the drive home, Greg saw a DeLorean on the 101. Greg is a Back to the Future Fanatic (no, really, I think he is a registered member), so he instinctively chased it like a puppy after a marrowbone. Luckily, we caught up to it before it reached 88 MPH, and Greg is now the owner of a blurry picture of the taillights of a DeLorean. I don't think he's ever been more proud.

Yesterday I woke up uncharacteristically late and then spent a lot of time laying around and eating frosted mini wheats. Eventually, I'd had enough, and I insisted that we get out of the apartment and do something. I even offered to drive.

So there we were, walking down the hill towards my car, the sun was shining, the smell of urine was in the air. Life was glorious. But my car wasn't there. A little further, I thought. No. Greg insisted we must have parked it elsewhere, but that was bullshit. Pyung had been with me the last time I drove it, and both of us aren't stupid.

There were two options, then. Either it was stolen or it had been towed. If it was stolen, that was fine--was insured, not the end of the world. Might even have been lucky, preferable. If it was towed, well that would suck.

Finally, a red mustang drove up and the dudes, noticing our perplexed faces, were like, are you looking for a little red car? Like I'd lost my puppy or something. Yes, yes we are. We saw them tow it a few hours ago, the cops were out here and everything.

At this point, I wasn't worried. I hadn't done anything wrong. It was all a huge misunderstanding. The street was free-for-all, and I was 99 percent sure that I hadn't parked on a red curb or in front of a fire hydrant or another driveway. Pyung concurred. I had done no wrong. Then why did they tow me?

Then it hit me. Or I had hit it--or someone, rather. I must have accidentally run over someone and not noticed and then they got my plates and tracked my car down and were just waiting for me to come claim it so they could book me. Either that or Noah, dude I'd bought the car from, was a drug dealer and some drug dogs had found some narcotics in the trunk. Or, dear god, even worse, illegal immigrants.

I was hung up on the hit and run scenario. I came back and called the LAPD and inquired about my car. I gave the plates and was put on hold forever. I was scared they were tracing my call so they could come book me for impaling a bmw or whatever it was I--or Noah--did. Eventually, policeman came back on the phone. Turns out car had not been registered for six months. Stupid, stupid Noah. I hate you. A plague on your house.

We went to the police station to try to get a release form but the "detectives" were out and pretty frontdesk officer said there was nothing he could do. So I have to go back Monday and try to get this all straightened out and tell them that my registration papers are being processed, blahblah. In the meantime, car is at Hollywood Tow, and I am paying like, I don't know, $100 a day for parking.

The pervasive theme of the past few days has been, uh, what am I doing here.

I like going to the office where I intern and feeling like I am helping out, etc, but I don't really see it as any sort of means to an end, so it doesn't seem a reason to justify my move here. The job search is lame. I went to this shopping area called The Grove yesterday and finally applied for the Gap and Banana Republic and Jcrew. I have a group interview next week. I was given a preview when the manager at the Gap asked me to tell him what integrity means to me, and what I thought the meaning of customer service is. Good thing I majored in bullshit.

Whatever. Last night Greg invited a bunch of peeps over to feast on homemade sushi. I ate a tofu bologna sandwich because raw fish seems suspect enough when it hasn't been prepared in a kitchen used primarily by three guys with unsavory hygiene habits. Our neighbors from across the hall came over. One is a musician, the other an actor. I dug. They are cool. Hopefully they aren't food poisoned by sushi. I feel like that would start off our friendship in a not good way.

Praveen, friend from back East (ha!) arranged for his bff Matt, who lives in LA, to teach me how to drive. This was very nice of Matt to agree to, and very nice of Prav to set up, though I would like to point out that he arranged driving 101 for me not because he was concerned for the physical well being of myself and others or the state of my mental health in light of of the events of the past week, but because he was sick of hearing me whine. You know, fyi.

I was an hour late meeting Matt because one, I couldn't drive, and two, I got lost. I think he was only like, 64% pissed. Whatever. He still taught me about life and cars and the friction point and releasing the clutch and rpm and all things having to do with not killing yourself or others while operating a motor vehicle. Basically, I can now go from a complete stop on a hill to driving withiout rolling back very far and also without using my emergency brake, which, coincidently, does not work. So, I am a master driver now, and now the life of fabulous in LA can continue without interruption.

The other night Mark brought his friend Jen over. She has a baby puppy named Elvis that goes all places with her. Like Paris' Tinkerbell. When he arrived he was wearing a camo tshirt--very chic--but soon tired of it and went naked. He peed on our floor twice, but as he weighs about as much as an iPod, we were able to clean up with a single square of TP. We had to be gentle around Elvis because he just got out of the hospital after major surgery stemming from an unfortunate foray into some KFC.

I bring this up now because I just saw a puppy on the street, and if he had jumped into his owner's car just two seconds later, I am fairly certain he would have already been in my purse and wearing my sunglasses. By now he would be eating peanut butter out of a tea saucer, and I would call him Mr. Darcy.

As soon as I walked out the door at work today, my teeth started chattering. By the time I reached my car, my entire body was trembling. This did not bode well for the ride home.

I was jumpy and scared the whole time, and though I didn't stall once, I did freak myself and others out with rumblings and screeches about 924 times. When I drive, some part of me hopes that something will happen to the car--nothing drastic or dangerous or my fault--so that I don't have to drive it anymore.

Three times I've had cops behind me, and I keep imagining that someone has called-in a horrible driver and that the cops are trailing me, waiting for me to mess up so they can pull me over and arrest me. I'm always disappointed when they turn or pass me. I kind of hope they'll take away my license.

Once again, I got home and I was soaked. I bought a shirt today during lunch and changed into it in the Starbucks bathroom because I was feeling frumpy. It is white and flowy and lovely. And now covered in sweat stains because I am a nervous freak.

This car is ruining my life. I am going to quit Hollywood just so I can move back home and have an excuse to sell it.

I was always best at school during the first week. I would be interested in my courses, excited to do my homework, attentive in lecture. I would do all of the reading, take notes on the reading, take notes from my notes and tell all people delightful trivia about the colonization of Papua New Guinea or James Baldwin's thoughts on race.

In the back of my mind I would acknowledge that yes, this same unbridled enthusiasm tended to show up year after year and fizzle out after a few days. But each semester, I really believed that this time it was for real. I didn't know what had changed in my life, but it was making me a student and a hardworker instead of just some kid who went to school.

Of course, four or five or six days later, I'd wake up as myself and not some bizarre Type-A wannabe. I'd go back to sleep, skipping class, my library date, and the office hours I had intended to crash. Class time became nap time, library time became TV time, and all other time was squandered with friends. It was an okay life. I didn't mind it.

BUT MAN if I didn't get seduced by the work bug again. The first few days of this internship, I was totally diggin' making copies and answering the phones. In between I would read scripts and ask questions. I was eager to learn. But now, in my third week, instead of reading scripts or doing anything remotely productive for the company, I am talking online and googling people and reading blogs filled with celebrity gossip. Basically, I'm going to be a slacker my whole life except for brief weeklong periods whenever I start a new project. Sigh.

Oh, and I might have accidentally let le boss see me blogging. And might have accidentally told him he could find this blog if he googled me. Which, of course, means I might be accidentally getting myself fired. .

Saturday was pretty much the most boring day of my life. I can't think of a single thing that I did that was worth getting up for. I went to the grocery store and bought polenta and tofu, both of which require cooking and recipes and stuff and therefore offered no immediate satisfaction.

At night, we went to a party at USC, and after we stopped by the grocery again and I bought some chocolate doughnuts. I ate three in the car on the way home. I think it was in defiance of the rail-thin bodies at the party. The boys didn't partake because they are watching their figures. Got to stay hot for the ladies.

I have spent the past three days in the fetal position in the corner of my room, suffering from some sort of stress disorder stemming from trying to drive a stick in LA. Even thinking about it now makes me hypervenilate--in two days, I stalled 6 times, almost rolled back into a Ferrari, ran four red lights, and inadvertantly caused one fenderbender.

Stupid car is now parked on the street. Everytime we drive by it, I hold my breath, expecting it to have somehow dislodged and rolled down the hill into a BMW or similar. I am a horrible driver. I think this means I have to move, which is unfortunate, because I am starting to like LA.

I've been hiding the fact that I am now a card-carrying member of a fitness club. I joined last week. I go about every other day. I purchased new workout clothes because apparantly in LA, old tshirts and gym shorts are a bit, how do you say, passe.

Pre-LA I was no athlete, but pre-college I was. I wanted to keep it up--I liked being healthy--but I also like sleeping, watching TV, and eating sprinkles, so my lifestyles weren't jiving and running and working out lost. I did lament not having that outlet (and that body) all through college, though, and I always knew it would take me getting out to really change things. I generally need new beginnings--new year, new semester, new season, new week--to change my behavior, so when I got to LA, I figured that nothing would make this change more effective than to prepay for it. So I plopped down some dolla-bills in the hope that I would be guilted into heading to the gym. It's working.

I really hate gyms, though I didn't remember this until after I had signed up and paid and I showed up and walked around for ten minutes and decided I didn't feel like doing any of those fake machines and left. I came back with the roomies (who also joined) the next day and we did a hip-hop class and then some weights. Hip-hop was awesome, and hard. Basically, any dreams I had of being a back-up dancer in a Missy music video were shot. I was a little bit devestated. But we came back tonight and rocked out and were better and now my dreams are building up again.

Afterwards, Pyung and Doug wanted to lift some, but I was done. I bought a $5 protein/veggie/fruit/all things smoothie and went outside. I plopped on the sidewalk and stretched my hamstrings and quads and other muscles like a pro. One of the Olsen twins walked by, leaving a movie. I think she was impressed with my form.

Today I got my car back from the auto man. That was fun. It needed new brakes. Auto man was all, so you're selling this, yes? And I was all, no, I'm driving it. Well, when I learn at least.

I think he thought this was a bad move. But whatever. It might be an old import, but I have confidence that the car will last me at least until I have a steady income and can make rent. Whenever that will be.

I spent the day applying and following up to various jobs. The idea of having a full-time job makes me a little bit ill, so I think the plan in life will have to be to find a lot of really good part time jobs that pay me lots of money and then set up own health insurance and retirement, etc. Is that how life works? I have no idea.

In other news, today Doug and I saw a girl get hit by a car. She and her friend were running across Hollywood Blvd. at the same time that a lot of cars were driving very fast down Hollywood Blvd. Bad combo. Doug slammed on brakes so not to kill them, but girl kept running and got whacked to the ground by the rear view mirror a car in the next lane. If she had been slightly faster and had made it to the front of the car, she'd have been in trouble. Also, a pancake. She got up and tried to laugh it off but, hello, she just got hit by a car. Police people with guns came and escorted her away to the land of stupid people who jaywalk at inopportune times. Or maybe that was just to the sidewalk to make sure she really was alright.

So, kids, don't run in front of moving vehicles. And also, probably not such a hot idea to buy really old cars. That's my LA advice for the day.

Today was another fantastic day at the office. It's a long day of answering phones and organizing scripts, but I like it. It's fun. I still mess up a lot. Picking up the wrong calls. Cutting in on conference calls. Asking for callers names and immediately forgetting them. Telling an exec that "a someone sa-somthing-majam from somebody's office?" is one line one. When I really mean line two. And it's actually his mother.

Basically, work shouldn't be fun. But it is. And I think it's because I am not getting paid. Because I don't get a check, all things I do above the bare minimum--and really, this means all things I do--are somehow above and beyond the call of duty, thus giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. If I was getting paid, all the stuff I do now "voluntarily" would be requisite, and then where would I be? Getting paid, certainly. But fulfilled? Prob not. I also probably wouldn't be doing half the things I am doing now voluntarily, but that is only speculation.

I shall ponder this. And continue being unemployed. And living off of my credit card.

Today Greg and his friend Mark hosted a networking mixer for all of the young kids they know out here trying to make it. About 15 people showed up to the USC frat house where Mark is staying. He assures us that there are closer to 100 on the list. It's going to be big, he says, with bi-monthly meetings and a website--"Junior Hollywood." Tomorrow's players today.

I got chided by Mark and Greg for not networking with the other interns (and two paid assistants everyone was falling over themselves to talk to). These people are going to be able to help me out one day, they said. Making friends for the sole reason of getting something in the end--at least so explicitly--seems unnatural and wrong.

Doug and I found some Mike and Ikes and Sun Chips and considered the event a success. I left without any new friends but with a huge desire to go find some indie kids and fire up the Smiths and have a discussion about nuclear proliferation or the eradication of world hunger or the ethics of biology. Or maybe I just wanted to sit on the beach and flip through magazines and talk about how pretty the ocean is, not my (non-existant) five-year-plan.

I had a date tonight.

I met John, we'll call him, at the after-party at the premiere. I approached him because all night I had kept mistaking him for Dave Matthews, and after a few trips to the bar, it seemed like a good idea to tell him that.

So I did. He apparently had not heard this and was charmed, I'm sure, by my observation. Also, my wit and humor.

After learning that I just moved here, John offered me his business card from one of the studio lots and said that now I had a friend in LA. He was nice and had a baby face. I took it. Friendless and with nothing to lose, I emailed him the next day. He called me. We agreed to meet up.

John is 27. He works in a studio. He seems like he's moving up the ladder. We walked around this outdoor shopping area and got some sushi. He talked about himself the whole time and about stars he knows. I kept laughing because he so stereotypical and self-centered. He didn't notice.

He paid. He name dropped. He told me his wallet cost $100. He said he loved his car about 12 times. He mentioned New Years spent in Dublin and stays in San Francisco at the W and acted like not doing valet was somehow slumming it.

He dropped me off with an invitation to call him. Right. He also offered to send my resume around. It was tempting, but I declined.

Next.

I just remembered more hilarity from haircut on street:

1. Haircutter man said that I should tell him all the things that upset me and he would get rid of the bad energy through the hair.
2. He said he could sense that I would be excellent at cutting my own hair. I used to cut Barbie's hair. I know this isn't true.
3. We get along because our signs line up.

The end.

Today I wanted to do two things:

1. apply for a job, any job
2. get my haircut

I wasn't hopeful, as list has been same, basically, since I got out here. But, I applied to a job at a cool t-shirt shop on Hollywood Blvd, which is an excellent sustainable clothes company selling brandless clothing and making all things here in LA (with ac!), not in some sweatshop somewhere. The girl who took my resume was super cool, and also an anth major, and i think she'll put in a good word. liiiiife.

After I dropped off my rez, I kept walking with Pyung and Dougtastic down Hollywood Blvd. in search of other places to work and also an anonymous haircut place that might not charge us $100.

We passed this guy sitting outside of a coffee shop reading a German phrasebook. I was drawn to him. Not in a "let's make babies way," but in a "i think this person is interesting and he's learning German and I want to talk to him" way. Also, he has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Like a cat. Meow.

Anyway. Doug and Pyung said I should follow my instinct becuase he could be producer and make me famous or something. So i got got an ice tea, sat in the table next to him, and turned and and asked him, " ach, lernst du Deutsch?"

He did. He was studying so he wouldn't forget it after he learned when he was in Germany for a year two years ago modeling. We started talking about Germany when he stops, looks at me, and says: "You have good hair. I could make it great with a cut right now for $20."

Life is glorious.

Saul, "the hair cowboy," as he is called here, whipped out a cape for me to wear and we stood on the sidewalk on hollywood blvd and he cut my hair. He calls it hair sculpting, keeping your length but going with your natural waves. Or whatever. My hair looks rockin.

Also, Saul is something of a fortune teller/astrologist/spiritual man, and while he was cutting he told me that we are kindred spirits, basically, and that this is a wacko town, but he's sure I'll be fine. He can sense it. Whatev. He started to tell me about himself, but said he didn't know why, bc he knew i could already "see into him."

So basically, I'm alright. Also, a mind reader. Life is hilarious.

I bought a car today. From the first dude I called on Craig's List. It's an 89 Audi. It'll get me through the summer or whatever. It was $1250. Now I'm literally and seriously broke. Whatever, ain't no thing, that's life, right? Sweet debt I love you.

Also, it's a stick. So I can't drive it. Sweeeet.

Last night Greg and I rolled up to the premiere of Mr. and Mrs. Smith at the Fox Theatre in Westwood. We didn't have tickets. But Greg had connections, and soon enough we were being ushered down the red carpet. That part was alright. Angelina and Adam Brody were talking to some fans. David Hasselhoff was talking on his cell phone. Some chick from Desperate Houswives was posing for the camz in the most ridiculous over the top way ev. Basically, it was hilarious. But also fun. I was wearing my high wedges which by default make me strut and also jeans and and a wife beater and a black blazer and unwashed hair. It's not what you wear but how you wear it. F.Y.I.

So we walked down the carpet which was like, whatever, because no one is looking at you if they haven't seen you in US Weekly. In the theatre all the seats are markedwith peeps' names except for the first five rows which are for the nobodies, which in Hollywood apparantly means the visual effects supervisor for the film that was sitting beside us and the two industry producers in front. Oh, and also Carrie Fisher, who is a nut, btw. She was raving around flailing her arms and wondering why the FUCK she was in the front effing row. Didn't even recognize her--none of us did--but I saw her eyes and was like aww man, I think that's Princess Lea. She be crazy.

The movie was fun. People clapped a lot. That was nice. And then like, half the people dipped as soon as it was over, which surprised me. I figured if ANYONE stayed for the credits, it'd be that crowd, but whatever. Also, as we left, there was more trash (from the free popcorn and drinks--millionaires don't need to be paying $10 for popcorn, sheesh.)

After we went to the after party, which was hott. There were two bars made of ice and booze aplenty and delicious macaroni and cheese and strawberries and sushi and other meat things. I talked to a woman who was there on a blind date with a man whose son works at Regency. Also, an agent from UTA. Also, a few aspiring screenwriters/actors/people in H.wood. Also, Adam Brody. Holla. Was talking to these kids because they were the only ones in jeans therefore I thought they would be cool? They were aight. But also friends of Adam Brody who came over and introduced himself. He's pretty. And charming. But after a few min his agent or manager or whatevvv came over and was like, "This is ridicious, Adam is the only actor in this movie who is still here. This is unacceptable. We have to leave NOW."

I spent most of the time wandering around the party listening to people's conversations and feeling superior for not being so vapid. I'm not an insider and I'm not out here to try to be an insider. Yes, I'm interning at this place in the biz, but really, that's just to have something to do and learn some things. Everyone at that party wanted something--you could tell. It wasn't a relaxed atmosphere. These people were working.

I thought a lot about celebrity, too, since there were familiar faces all over. I read People. I know all about Ben and Jen and Nick and Jessica and all things, really. But everyone does. It is part of pop culture. Yes, there are people who might not know that Meg Ryan left Dennis Quaid for Russell Crowe, but hello, this is part of the fabric of American culture, and even though I don't actually know these people or actually care who or what they are doing, I would say that to really know what's going on in all things you need to know this stuff. It's not important, but it's part of our society. Deal.

But back to the afterparty. Brad and Angelina entered, did a once-through and left. As soon as each came in they were surrounded by people yielding digicams and others trying to talk to them and congratulate them, I guess. And these were industry people, not the teenieboppers outside who were crying at the sight of them earlier in the evening. Others were whispering that they are apparantly together now. Blah. I know that is the life they chose, blahblahblah, but jesus, they are just people. Once Brad Pitt is standing two feet away from you, he's just a dude. Next.

Just finished first day of work. Was fun. Enjoyed immensely. Until about 4, when I started wanting to peace out. Stayed til 7 though, like a champ.

Drive to work was fun. Took an hour and 15 minutes and the freeway was a parking lot, basically. At first I was thinking, oh hellll no, there is no way I'm doing this everyday. But turns out there was a bad accident blocking two lanes of traffic. WHEW. Listened to the Sounds CD the whole way, which I ganked from Greg. It was aight. I would've preferred Amelie or similar, but really, who wouldn't?

So yes. Got to work. Late on first day but said there was accident and that seemed acceptable excuse. Answered phones all day. Only messed up like a lot. Not, really. No, really. But was fine. One other asst said I was rocking the phones. So. I think the people in the office like me. There are 4 boss people and three assistants and me and one other intern, Ruth. She's cool. She gave me a reeses cup. It was delicious. Read some scripts. Copied some stuff. Copied some more stuff. Bound and unbound stuff. Just another day at the office, basically. Earning my keep. But wait! I'm not. Lunch was fun. I got a crepe and then went into Anthropologie which is basically me in retail form and looked around at all the beautiful things that I can't afford. Whatev.

Roomies are all out crashing the Batman Begins premiere. They had to go like 3 hours before I got home, those bastards. Whatever. Is nice to have place to myself.
That is a lie. It's not nice. Is now apparant that know no one except quasi-stranger roomies in this city. Perhaps must fix this. Yes. Is fine though. Will make friends with all people. And meet Topher. And all things will work out.

Sweet jesus is it early. Doesn't look early though. The sun rises here at like 5 a.m. I am off to my first day of work. In eagerness not to suck, woke up 45 minutes before needed to leave, forgetting it takes me approx 3-7 min to take shower, wash face, brush teeth, and dress. Am wearing grey banana pants and racerback white tank and pumas, fyi. Friday all those peeps were dressed super office casual so I don't want to go in and be the lame intern who thinks this is a REAL job and rocks dress clothes. Life is complicated.

In other news, last night we watched In Good Company, and it was pretty much fantastic. I have a huge huge huge crush on Topher Grace. Good thing im in LA and will probably run into him today at Starbucks.

Greg and I took a drive. We took Sunset to Beverley Hills. Manohman. Even at the stretch, where the celebrity hangouts and posh bars abound, there is still a distinct air of city trash around. As soon as you pass into B.hills, it's gone. Man alive are those houses huge. Of course, for the most part I am just assuming this based on the huge fences and hedges in front that block all view of the homes. We did see Ozzy's house though. It was big.

After that we went to Westwood, which basically a mini college town in LA. We went to this icecream place called Diddy Riese and got ice cream sandwiches made with cookies for a dollar. It was basically totally awesome. I want to go hang out there more. And get fat.

On the way home we saw some leather couches on the side the road. We pulled over. One was torn up, and a homeless person was sitting on one of the couches. He got up and offered it to us, but man, we assured him that they wouldn't fit in our car...or our apartment in the Hills. Vom. I hate myself. We did get this half-chaise-lounge mammerjammer. I'm convinced it's drenched in cat piss, but whatev. It was free. Best part was putting it in Greg's hatchback, tying a headphone cord to the trunk hood, and sitting in the front seat holding onto the cord for dear effing life so it didn't fly up and let the effing sofa fly out. That was fun. I felt cool.

Oh, check it. Rewind. When we were leaving, we walked in the elevator and joined a rockstar with surfer hair (from product, I'm sure) and low-rise jeans and his accessory gf in a trucker hat, tube top, gold spiked heels, and mini-skirt. Also, a bad dye-job. So dude is counting his money--crisp fifties--and chick is putting on lipstick and asking if so-and-so is going to be there ("oh, you mean my drummer, babe?"). Basically, it was all I could of hoped for and more.

It's 5 p.m. I just got dressed. Accomplished today: hung up clothes, organized belongings into a pile, helped Greg put up some posters, ate a tofu hotdog. That's about it. Yesterday I walked down Hollywood Blvd. and back up Sunset and picked up apps so I can make money sometimes by hawking clothes or coffee or books or whatever. Did Gap, Banana, Borders, Starbucks, Amoeba Music, hip t-shirt shop. Have decided really want t-shirt shop gig as is socially conscious and will help my indie cred. I think I could get the music store job but I don't know how long I could keep it because I actually know nothing about anything.

After job hunt went to Target with roomies to buy things for apt. Was stressful and wrong. Boys know no things about style or life or anything. Rejected all of my suggestions so now im sitting on an $8 black folding chair and typing on a card table. Vom. Will have to go back alone and buy nice things. With clean lines. And fresh colors. And also maybe a plant.

I had an interview Friday. It went well. I start Monday. I'll be interning--working for free--at a literary production/management company. I am not sure what they do. It seemed inappropriate to ask after I had just spent ten minutes going on and on about how much I wanted to work for them and what a good fit it seemed. Whatever, it is something to do with writing, which I can do, and movies, which I like. So I'm sure all things will work out.

Best part of job is that it is in Santa Monica, two blocks from beach and surrounded by lovely stores. Worst part of job is that it is in Santa Monica, two blocks from beach and surrounded by lovely stores. As I flew out here, and also totalled my car last November, I am without transport, so this might be tricky. As for the stores, really, I'm poor, and it's sad. Anyway so weekend has been spent trying to figure out how will get to "work."

Options:
1. borrow car of roomie
2. taxi
3. public transport
4. rental car
5. purchase car

I'm going for number five as seems easiest and most stress free. Additionally, options 3 - 4 would require money and in the end I'd have nothing but an empty bank account, but at least with option 5 I'll have a car and an empty bank account. Am not sure where this money will come yet, but I guess if you aren't going to be in debt when you're young, when will you, eh?

So yes. A car in LA is a crucial thing. Well, that isn't true because there are thousands of people in this city who don't have them, but what I am sayin is, this is no New York. Apparantly there is a metro but it is only useful for going downtown, which is a pocket of skyscrapers in the distance that, no matter, where we go, we never seem to approach. I assume it's unimportant. There are buses, but as far as I can tell, people only use them if they have to.

Blahblahblah I'm done with this boring post. I'm usually witty and fantastic. I don't know what has happened. LA has eaten my soul.

I am 21 years old. Two weeks ago, I walked across some steps in Virginia and was handed a diploma. Two days ago, I walked across a terminal in Virginia and got on a plane that landed at LAX.

How romantic, I know.

My friend Greg wants to make it in the biz. You know, THE biz. Hollywood. He's been out in LA the past few summers making movie execs coffee, and now he's back again for good for a final stint as an unpaid minion before he takes over the world and earns a star on Hollywood Blvd, etc. etc. Homeboy wants to be a director. But shh don't tell anyone that because everyone and their mother wants to direct, apparantly, and he's got to set himself apart. Along with for the move to the coast are Pyung, econ major and aspiring sitcom writer, and Doug, english/business major and aspiring actor/writer/voice-over man/advertising exec/stay-at-home mom.

How I got here: One night I am reading through some old articles I had written for a school pub and I realized that my best stuff was about TV. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Arrested Development. I had some passion for this stuff. So at 2:39 a.m. on some anonymous morning, I decided that I loved TV, wanted to write for TV, and that would be my life. The end.

The next day Greg IM'd me and asked if I wanted to move to LA. I had been to LA only once before, for one day with my family and I had thought it was, how should I say, god-awful, horrendous, and disgusting. A glorifed traffic jam. Nevertheless, I bought a one-way ticket a week later and here I am, sitting on the floor of a sublet apartment that is lacking a desk, a bed, a chair, a table, or an overturned milk crate. But it's okay. I'm in the city of glitz and glam and blue skies and ocean sunsets. And ruthless businesspeople and social climbers and poverty and racial tension. But whatever. What's good enough for Rachel Bilson is good enough for me.