Dead Squirrels

I think a out this all the time.  Why don't you see dead squirrels around that died of natural causes?  The ones that, old and wise, sitting on a branch.... Pass in the wind.  Their eyes close and having led a full life... They fall from their branch, and tumble to the ground.... Completely at peace.  I've never seen a squirrel not dead from its skull crushing under the weight of a vehicle or it's innards ripped to shreds by a wild dog.

Get on that, Ellen.

I Have 3 Years Left!!!!

Blogging has become so difficult.  I no longer have interesting thoughts.  Something I read recently (a nonfiction book called "Imagine") told me that creativity peaks when you are exactly 30 years old.  Apparently, that is why so many great artistic geniuses create their "masterpieces" around their 20's, and can never really reclaim that artistry no matter how old and sage they become.  I don't want to believe this, but it feels true.  How awesome was "The Shining?"  When was the last one of his 1,000 books he wrote even close to "The Shining?"  When was the last time Sam Shepard wrote something like "Lie of the Mind?"  No matter how depressing it seems, you can't help but look at the facts.  According to history, it looks pretty true.  At least, as far as writers go.  That's mostly what I am basing this current conundrum on.  So if this is true, that means I have exactly 3 years (4 if this truth counts for the entire 30th year) to create the best things in my life.  And the sad thing is, I look at this not with fear, but with hope.  If you would have asked me three years ago when I was moving from Chicago to L.A. what would happen in a year or so, I would have said, "Oh, I don't know where I'll be in my career, but I am pretty sure I would have written something very, very good."  That has yet to happen.  I keep thinking I'm going to write something "very, very good" any second now.  So I do things like (see post below) that I think have the potential to be wonderful.  But usually, they simply result in strangeness. And result in finished projects that quietly sleep under my bed.  Because I know they aren't my masterpiece.  And who wants to come out of the unknown-writer-closet with anything less than a masterpiece?

PS. Stephen King and Stephen Hawking look extremely similar, right?

Sam Amidon

I contacted this man whose CD's you might have heard in my car.  I want to write a play that is very, very loosely based John Steinbeck (my favorite American novelist)'s book "East of Eden."  I want this guy to help me write it, and for him to let me use his music in it.  What a long stretch, right?   Let's see if it comes to fruition, shall we?

Tell me if this doesn't scream moving out West and reading Steinbeck and folk-y love.
Here he is in concert with one of my favorite songs:

Bekah Brunstetter, can you "The Secret" this for me?

Matt and Ben

I am doing this play.
I also am still working on "The Haunted Hathaways," a Nickelodeon show.
I have nothing to blog-write about!!! Or, for that matter, write-write about.
I sit in a room all day and make jokes, so I have no real-life jokes to make.... 

So this is all I have today:

What I just walked into the writers' room to hear: 

"What would it be like to be in a washing machine also with vomit."

Isn't it Weird...

When you trip while you're alone and  naked....?

Smile

If ever you are on a quiz show and I'm your partner and we have to know adorable things about each other, you should know that the thing that makes me more mad than anything else in the entire world is when men tell me to smile. 

When you are a very tiny, young girl, complete strangers will tell you to smile ALL THE TIME. Whenever you are not skipping around looking happy to be alive, they will demand this of you. And if you're like me, consistently angry, this will happen to you more frequently. 

I never lash out at people when they upset me because it doesn't occur to me to do so. I totally would if I wasn't caught up in killing them in elaborate ways in my mind. While a group of skinny dogs watch and laugh. 

But when a man tells me to smile, I understand the phrase "it makes my blood boil." That's the feeling. Hot, hot anger. 

Why do they think they can do this? Why should my stroll down the street be about you, and what you want me to look like? It is the exact same thing as saying "Don't wear sweatpants. Wear a skirt."

And it's always the same type of man. Old, ugly and dumb. 

And here is what is probably behind the hatred I have for the entire male species I feel at these moments: I cannot win. There is NO way to respond. Because here are the two options:

1. I say, "Go fuck yourself." or "Why don't you smile, you fat piece of shit?" or "I will if you castrate yourself so their are less ugly, fat fucks on the planet?"  

I've never said any of these, but I have said things said similar to "Go Fuck yourself", or given le finger. And it will without a doubt, STILL make him win. Because he goes "Whoa, aren't we touchy!" Or something that means you are a crazy bitch. 

2. The second thing I can say is "I'm not going to smile because I don't feel like it, and it's not your place to tell me how I should be feeling at the moment." Then he'll get confused and I will have to launch into gender role equality sermon, which will make no sense to this man (see above: old and dumb), and I have no desire to talk to him or educate him. I have the desire to deeply shame him. And even if I DO say these things in a pleasant, docile way ("smile"), I can guarantee you this man will actually be thinking ohhh, you are one of those crazy feminist. God, feminists are so annoying. 

Maybe Amy Pohler knows the answer to this question. Yes. She definitely knows that to do. Tina Fey always says Amy is not afraid to leap down someone's throat when she is offended. Who do I know that can ask Amy Pohler what she does when male strangers command her to feel a certain way for their own pleasure? I bet her retort would raise the perfect balance of fear and shame.

(Fat) Horatio Sanz Sex Dream

Truth be told, there is never actually sex in my sex dreams. They consist of me and a man talking about whether or not we are going to have sex. Or, in one case, grocery shopping with Jeff Goldbloom as he tells me that he's thinking about maybe raping me. That's about as far as they go.

Last night I had a full-on, kissing sex dream. I saw Horatio Sanz in an elevator and told him to come up to my apartment. He was like "Oh, yeah!" (cuz he was still fat then. And because this never really happened). Then I started worrying whether or not people would start calling me a star-fucker. Yeah... that's that star fucker... we hate her. 

Then we kissed and it was really gross, and I thought... I've never kissed an obese person... they're lips are just so... fat. So I told him I don't want to have sex with him anymore and he was really mean to me and told me I'm annoying and left wearing sandals he hadn't come in with.