Home sick from running through the 'loin (that's the Tenderloin for all you non-SFers, arguable the worst part of the city) to get to a bar last night but for a much nobler reason than you'd expect. I had just downloaded a cut of a commercial we had to ship by a certain time that night and needed to go to a happy hour to get someone to watch and approve it ASAP. It was a "fire drill" if you will (that's an urgent situation for all you non-corporate folks who haven't become linguistically sterile from too many work emails). Anyway, the running got my body all hot and so I took my jacket off and kept it off for most of the several hours I ended up staying at the bar, caught a cold, stayed out late, got up early to do pilates while feeling vomatose (like comatose but in the state of feeling like you are going to throw up versus being in a coma), blah blah. Anyway, this paragraph has been a huge digression instead of a segue as intended.
Trying to write (one of) my book(s)––contain your excitement, people––and struggling to focus my words. At first, blogging was hard because I had to think of my own topics and create my own constructs but now that I am attempting to hone my thinking, I can't do it. The grass is always greener, am I right?
Ugh, I don't know how my predecessors did it. My book will be very Chelsea Handler's My Horizontal Life meets Jane Eyre. Try to guess which book I am referencing to allude to my writing style and which book I am mentioning to foreshadow the laughably-unfortunate plot that is my life. Hint: there is no horizontal in my book. It's very Bridget Jones' Diary (the movie more than the book) minus the obesity, smoking and accents.
Anyhoo, I don't know how Chelsea Handler and Tina Fey wrote their memoirs. Do you think they were writing at their vanity, alternately typing and staring at themselves in the mirror? Do you think they listened to the Alanis Morissette Pandora station, too? They wrote on Friday nights in the prime of their youth too, right? Right?
