Why do we do this?

A conversation I had with my boyfriend last night >>

Me: Why do we do this?

Boyfriend: What do you mean?

Me: This. Any of this? We spend our days plugging numbers into charts, FWD:ing updates that we know will go unread, and answering questions with questions to buy ourselves time just so we can get to happy hour, or make it to the weekend so we can take pictures of our baby and actually enjoy ourselves. Why do we stress, when in reality, we know we’re just sending another email in a sea of other emails to buy ourselves some time to send the other emails?

Boyfriend: I think you’re questioning the meaning of life?

Me: No. I fully believe that does not exist, so I’m asking why we do this to ourselves?

Boyfriend: I’m not disagreeing, but I’m worried.

[Fade to black]

To be fair, we were watching picturesque cinematography of Iceland, and I became increasingly irritated that somehow society convinced me I needed to spend money on an oversized portrait of Paris to make my overpriced apartment feel less bleak. It’s only October 2nd, and I’m already wondering how long I can last until a bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder forces me to drag our Christmas decorations out of the unnecessary third closet that would have served better as an extension to our thimble-sized bathroom in an attempt to reignite the flame of hope inside my frosty heart. Privilege, am I right?

And while watching the oceanic waves crash on the rocky cliffs of Iceland, I questioned why the images on my HDTV made me feel calmer than...well...any human interaction I’d experienced recently.

When I was an actor/waiter, I could at least justify my interactions with humans as being with people who were genuinely trying to enjoy themselves by consuming self-gratuitous art and debauched brunches.

Listen, this is not a cry for help, nor is it an attempt to encourage the millennials who only smoke when they drink to actually commit to something that doesn’t involve a dependable paycheck. In fact, most times I have these existential breakdowns, I’m on the cusp of something great.

I can’t give an example of that, but I truly feel it inside of this sip of red wine. This has happened before. Check the archives.

Anyway, what I want to say is this:

Wake up. Look in the mirror. Remember who you are. There might be a while when you feel like you’re not that person, but don’t forget you really - and I mean actually, impossibly - are incapable of being somebody else. One time, at a Halloween party I hosted post-Hurricane Sandy, I learned from this drunk girl that pursuing a new path is not abandoning a dream. (My boyfriend called this a “sunk cost.” Don’t know what that is, but he goes to UChicago, so maybe helpful?)

And if you feel like you’re wasting your fleeting youth for a while doing this, just remember that two years ago I was walking to the Los Angeles Metro listening to Fergie. And I’m still very pretty.

Two years from now, who’s to say?

I’ll probably be single again,

TJB: Making It

Drinks Are Really Cheap Here.

Going home is fun for three days. Maybe it doesn’t cease being fun altogether on the fourth, but think about the last time you went back home and I guarantee, by the end of day three, you could have safely walked away maintaining some sort of positive opinion on the place that created whatever that sad hole is inside of you.

You can imagine by day ten, I was feeling pretty reckless.

I half wanted to be at that bar. I think any time you know you’re going to run into everybody you went to high school with –

And let me elaborate on that. When you go to a bar like this, you know you’re going to run into everybody you went to high school with that had an arguably OK experience. The others no longer require that validation.

- any time you’re going to run into everybody you went to high school with, you kind of half want to be there. The other half hopes for a train wreck. You always hope to leave that bar saying, “This is why I left.”

And the bar was pretty much divided that way. Towards the front of the bar stood those who had made the great “escape”, symbolically close to the exit. Those that became namesakes of the town sat at tables in the heart of it all, roots deep in the floor, high school sweethearts still at their side. In the middle, a sort of neutral zone, becoming more populated as safe levels of BAC had been reached.

“Where are you now?” was the echo that bounced off the wood paneling and Tiffany lamps.

(It's also a very emotional Britney Spears song. Take a listen.) 

The answer to the question never really mattered, the point being to buy just enough time for a size-up from head to toe, checking for weight gain, hair loss, and any sign that you had become a different person.

And as far as we may have escaped, I don’t think any of us had become different people. Or maybe we had become different people, learning how to play into our current societies where we were now, but at our cores we had the same souls. It was palpable.

That guy who was an asshole in high school? Still an asshole. At least in his soul.

As I clung to the-one-friend-I-had-left from high school who still came to this town for the holidays, I calculated my turns and paths to the bar so that I wouldn’t have to be faced with anyone who might be made uncomfortable by my bleached hair and perceived lisp, or I by their Midwestern stability and sense of belonging.

Then, just to my left, not much higher than my shoulder, I caught the eye of the-girl-I-wasn’t-friends-with-in-high-school. I call her that because she reminded me almost immediately that we weren’t really friends in high school. At first, I thought it strange, because living in Los Angeles nobody I am friends with was my friend in high school. Yet back here, in this bar, it felt acceptable to point out before beginning a conversation.

I remembered her well. No, we were not friends, but we were in choir together. We were on the same trip to Germany. Her brother played baseball with me. On my new scale in my much bigger world, I would say we knew each other well. On the scale of that bar in that town, no. We did not really know each other I suppose. In high school, she was what an adult at the time would call “eccentric.” But now, all of her eccentricities seemed to have found their time and place in some weird form of “told you so.” She looked radiant. My favorite thing about her was that she still maintained that air of self-awareness that paired so well with not giving a fuck. She’s the kind of girl gays are drawn to. You get it.

So I was quite pleased she struck up a conversation.

“Where are you now?” she asked. I, of course, was ready for that question to bounce off the walls and be directed at me. I had practiced my response. I knew that I was not the celebrity actor, television writer, or Broadway star I had so confidently promised I would be in 2007. I quickly reviewed my path across the country from Chicago to New York to Los Angeles. I placed caveats where caveats were needed and abridged what felt too personal. I rolled my eyes in strategic places and gesticulated appropriately as if to say, “Oh you know. LA.”

“But are you having fun?” I almost choked on the suddenly stronger whiskey as the question pierced my ears and shattered the wall of justifications I had successfully built to avoid further conversation on my life. Here, in what felt like the smallest bar in the smallest town in America, I had just been reminded by the-girl-I-wasn’t-friends-with-in-high-school what mattered most at the core of my soul inside the different  - or maybe the same - person I was.

I sat my drink down on the on the high top table to my right and wiped a streak of condensation across it with my index finger, considering. I turned back to my left and looked through her oversized frames into the smiling eyes that suddenly appeared to give a genuine fuck, still waiting for an answer.

“So much. So much fun.” I realized in that moment. 

With one quick swoop of my hand, I dried the streak of condensation from the high top table, picked up my drink again, and bit down on my straw as I sipped, staring out over the crowd of people with something new to size up.

“That’s all that matters.” She put her hand on my arm before moving away to do a round of shots with the-people-she-was-friends-with-in-high-school.

I glanced to the-one-friend-I-had-left and gestured at her drink. She nodded her head as she continued to listen to another “Where are you now?”

I moved towards the bar to order more, uncalculated this time, almost hoping to run into another person I wasn’t friends with in high school. I perched up next to the eccentrically radiant one. She smiled, raised her shot towards me, and turned to the circle of cheers.

Then I kind of blacked out, but oh my God I had so much fun.

Always have a DD,

TJB: Making It

George Orwell Tried to Warn Us

This was once a happy place.

I was sitting on a gorgeous patio in the dry LA heat, sipping my cold brew and chatting with one of my oldest and dearest friends. Not a care in the world. That beautiful, rare moment when you forget everything that weighs you down at night and you can just be. Full of laughter. Full of happiness.

Then, it took a dark turn.

At first, I wasn't sure what was happening. I felt a presence underneath the table. I looked up to see a tall and quite handsome man looking down at me. He said nothing, but I knew exactly what he was looking at.

There was a dog sniffing my leg.

He gave the leash a sharp tug, but still said nothing as I stared up at his darkly tinted sunglasses, protecting his surely baby blue irises from being melted by my death rays. I crossed my legs abruptly to startle the beast and make it clear I did not consent. The animal refused to back down from my delicious aura, so the man gestured his leash holding hand towards his woman and said, "Can you just -?"

She took the leash and pipped, "C'mon!" to the canine in that disgusting baby voice they have been taught to believe all creatures understand.

I watched - broken and unrecognized - as they dragged the dog to their table and tied him to a chair. That was the last time they tossed any attention its way. For the rest of their meal, it was the other patrons of the restaurant who were forced to smile and coo as the furry demon pranced around on its 6 feet of leash, barking through the aisles, attempting to topple the waitstaff, now pawns in this newly declared puppy playground.

America, stop brining your dogs to brunch.

Activist,

TJB: Making It

June Busted Out All Over

Marriage Equal Since 2015

This is that, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe it's been over a month since I've written, and I promise I'll be better about it," circa 2002 LiveJournal post.

Fun fact: I used to write LiveJournal posts about this boy I liked from Student Congress and then tell people they were about my female Chemistry teacher. She knows who she is. Them's some real f-ed up demons.

In reality, I'm only even posting this because my mom won't stop texting me about how much she misses reading my blog. I've actually steered conversations towards the topic of my blog waiting for somebody to tell me they miss it. No such luck.  

We are legends in our own minds. 

The truth of why I haven't been posting? Shit has been going really well. Like, really well. And as my boyfriend just told me, "Nobody wants to read about your happiness."

Maybe he's right. So I'll make it easy on you. Here's what you've missed. Stop reading when you feel jealous.

1. I have a new job. I love it and it loves me. I think it loves me because I haven't been fired yet. I also no longer have nightmares about waiting tables. 

2. I went to Disney World. With that job that's awesome. It was my seventeenth trip to Disney World. I recognized one of the bathroom attendants. It was only semi-awkward. 

3. I have a new apartment. It's beautiful. It's like where somebody would live if they were an adult. I don't know how they let me live here. 

4. Gays can get married. My boyfriend told me that we could have gotten married the whole time we've been living in California. I reminded him of Prop 8. He said that was years ago. The verdict is still out on whose timeline is correct, but the important thing is I'm registered at Tiffany and Target.

5. Have you heard of Spotify? Oh man, it's pretty cool. You can get so much music for just $10/month. I was about to spend $15 on Celine Dion's greatest hits when I thought, "You know what? Why not also get Whitney Houston's for a fraction of the price?" Life changing. 

6. My car still does not have a front license plate. I think it's the stupidest thing ever. I will likely receive a ticket for it soon. Updates to follow. 

7. Still don't know how to grocery shop. Recently bought fresh salsa and a pound of ham. I realized I couldn't eat those together and didn't want to walk to get chips or bread, so I bought a stick of summer sausage. 

There you have it, America. That's what I've been up to. Oh, and I'm also writing a really awesome TV pilot that will probably get purchased in the next year and make me super famous. Honestly, it's going to be the best new TV show you watch a trailer for on your iPhone. 

Stop texting me Mom,

TJB: Making It

Personal Chutes, Corporate Ladders

Now is the season when a new generation of younger and prettier graduates enter the world, and my ability to stay in an entry level position (look away, Mom), is getting more difficult. It's my turn to be on top.

Long story short of more innuendo, I'm going corporate. Yes, you can argue that I've done this before -- and Chicago, I'm sorry -- but this is real. This is like free trip to Disney World real.

Seriously, there's a company meeting in Disney World one month from now. I've taken jobs for a lot of reasons, but this has to be the easiest sell anyone has ever made me.

I have been slaving away, explaining to the brightest minds of Los Angeles what "sautéed kale" means, writing scripts by candlelight, telling myself the only way to follow a dream is to physically hurt from working. I thought it was all going to be OK when a web series I was writing for a friend looked like it was about to take off. Then, I received an email from the producer suggesting I write an alternate forty five page pilot script. To have options.

So when I was sipping the top shelf liquor of a college friend who lives in a beautifully decorated apartment, after my day of "dressing on the side", and he mentioned a job opportunity with his company's LA office, I thought,

"Nepotism? Yes please."

In defense of reality, I did have to impress a slew of people to get this job. But for the sake of a dramatic blog post, pretty people get handed everything and I am gorgeous.

I just think getting a paycheck that's not based on the kindness of tourists and hipsters will be A+.

Now, as I symbolically drag and drop copies of my web series to the trash can in the bottom right corner of my Mac, I look forward to starting the forty five pages of a new script amidst forty hours of a new job. Hand in hand, I will start my LA life fresh, out from under the coffee stained menus of self-proclaimed foodies.

I just want you all to know that you can also have this happiness I found. You just have to move to LA and look like you'd make a great drag queen.

There is no HR in the LA office,

TJB: Making It

Catching the Bug

This cost money.

Every time I go to the doctor, I'm convinced I have HIV. Or cancer. Usually, by the time I've reached the actual appointment, I'm convinced that my HIV lead to the cancer. Once the doctor has gone through my vitals and tells me they're perfect and I'm in great health (considering I lied about how often I drink and workout), I tell him I'd like to be tested for HIV.

That always yields the same response. "Why? Have you done something that would put you at risk?"

I look down at my Forever 21 short-sleeved  shark-print button up with the rolled cuffs, run my fingers through my bleached blonde hair, give him a side-eye and say, "No. Just...gay."

This time, after I spent a week in terror playing phone tag with the doctor, I found out I am fine.

Then I found out I had bed bugs.

And somehow, given that it is 2015 and we live in a generally homophobic nation fighting to fund AIDS research, HIV still feels more manageable than bed bugs. I would also rather tell people I have any disease than tell people I have bed bugs.

You know, I auditioned for Bedbugs!!!: the Musical once. I didn't get that role. I lost to the same guy who beat me out for Julie Taymor: the Musical. Wow, am I glad I'm not doing musical theatre anymore.

This post isn't going to gain me any friends, but if I had an STI, I would probably have a good idea where it came from. But the bed bugs? Sure, I live in an apartment complex where each other unit houses 16 people (though we were told the max is 3) and 4 dogs (though we were told dogs are not allowed), and each of those dogs uses our hallway as a litter box, the blame could still be mine. The bugs could have stowed away in my suitcase from my bougie mountain retreat vacation in a Malibu mansion. But that would really just slap privilege in the face and all hope for the patriarchy would be dead. Or something.

All I can say is that if you have a choice between a manageable STI (and I won't say HIV because that really feels like waving a red flag and I apologize) or having bedbugs, choose the STI. My roommate said gonorrhea is pretty easy these days. The billboards for syphilis don't make it look so bad either.  

Just pray you never get bed bugs. They are an 8th level of Hell that exists right below your mattress. They are what nightmares are made of.

Hello, my name is TJB and I have been bed bug free for six days.

Living in fear,

TJB: Making It

Thank You for Your Interest

Sometimes when I get really depressed, I apply to jobs and write really great but likely really inappropriate cover letters. I mean, I go for the jugular. The people reading these cover letters (if anyone actually opens the file) are either moved to tears because the writing is so brilliant, or they're forwarding it to coworkers with the subject line "WTF?!"

Every now and then I'll get a LinkedIn notification that my profile has been viewed by somebody from the company. I like to think they're pleasantly surprised by my dashing photo. I'm sure they write me off as some asshole running antics. The sad part is, I'd be really great at the jobs I apply for. 

I've had this problem since applying to colleges. I just can't take the process seriously. Job postings require one of two things: 1. Be a current student and let us pay you zero dollars, or 2. Have 5+ years at the most successful company in the field of work you're applying for. Sometimes they're like, "Tell us why you love our brand!" and I'm like, "Dear Company, I have never heard of your brand because you effectively do not exist in this market, but please read this amazing story about a time a third grader from Vermont inspired me to be a better person and I applied it to Public Relations."

Except it was all one fluid piece of prose that I actually sobbed over while writing. 

Seriously, I applied for a lowly assistant position that asked for 5+ years at a Fortune 500 company. Who spends five years of their lives at a Fortune 500 company to then backtrack down to, essentially, a paid internship? These people are really capitalizing on the start-up F-the-man generation. I wrote that company a story about the problem with sending XXX Snapchats or something. It was intensely philosophical shit, trust me. 

I guess I don't want to be a waiter for the rest of my life, but I also don't ever want to be one of the people I wait on that clearly hates their job so much. They are miserable people and they make me sad. Therefore, I will only accept a job that will hire me for actually being myself. 

Sure, that means I will likely remain a waiter for a while longer, but remember, I'm the kid who wrote an apology letter for my application to the Dean of Admissions at Northwestern after they accepted me. And that all turned out OK. 

Sorry Mom please keep paying my cell phone bill,

TJB: Making It

Medi(don't)care

This woman was actually BADASS. XO Nana B.

Sometimes I'm really grateful that I don't have grandparents who care how I'm doing. To be fair, I think one of the surviving three would care if I was staring him in the face and reminded him who I was, but I think in his given state of forgetfulness the mention of Los Angeles would spur a, "What the hell is that? No thank you."

And I'm not being sarcastic. I'm honestly relieved I don't have to update grandparents. Most of us already struggle with crafting our minimally successful days into Facebook updates or cleverly edited Instagrams in order to impress acquaintances. I can't imagine having to explain to a 70+ year old that I auditioned for something that is being filmed on an iPhone or that I wrote something that one day might appear on YouTube but will be great for my "portfolio."

Parents barely understand most of what goes on in their children's lives today. At least with parents, you're only competing with your siblings. If you can manage to maintain an edge of success on your siblings, you're winning. Unfortunately for me, my sister is gaining ground fast. The shining light that was being valedictorian faded years ago, and I think my Northwestern degree disintegrated with my third waiter gig. 

With grandparents, you have to compete with all of the cousins. I remember being the youngest of six on one side, and by the time my report card made it to the faces of Gram and Gramps, nobody gave a shit. I was tossed a reluctant $20 for my straight-A's and told to piss off. There was nothing I could do to surpass the others. I was laziest by chronology standards. It had all been done before. 

Now, if you are the only grandchild, you're GOLDEN. I hope your Nana and Papa are not physically able to vacation and will leave you everything. 

Listen, I thoroughly enjoyed and loved my grandparents growing up. Perhaps I should say they don't care what I'm doing instead of how I'm doing, but that's weak writing. Go for pathos.

I actually quite enjoy old people in general, when properly perfumed. Sometimes I dream that I'm waiting on an older couple, and I tell them how much I miss my family back home, and they tell me that they don't have any family, and they adopt me as their grandchild and spend lots of money on me. 

I actually think that's quite achievable in my gayness - except with two grandpas - and now that I'm divulging on it, I think maybe this already happened once in my life...

Oh man, I should call them more. Nice guys, those two. 

Lacking Social Security,

TJB: Making It

Another One Bites the Blonde

When I first moved to New York, I dreamt of being a go-go boy. Seriously. I told myself that if I ever had one of those bodies that was rock hard, I would get a super trendy haircut, maybe a piercing, an awkwardly placed yet meaningful tattoo, and then proudly strip down to my underwear and dance on bars for dollars.

Oh, and I would wear neon colored Nike high tops.

Thankfully for my parents' pride but not so much my body, I lack the dedication and drive it takes to successfully complete the necessary workout regimen for anybody to toss even a nickel my way. I continue to look like a hot dog that was cooked in the microwave but removed JUST before the skin popped.

You get it.

Then my 26th birthday came, and I thought of all the crazy things I had dreamed of doing in my early twenties. I decided that I needed to stop wasting my time reflecting on what could have been and start working on my reflection now.

Also, Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" was on the radio, and I was FEELING. IT.

First I thought piercing, but my attached earlobes can't even pull off a hoop and my nipples are too flat. Then I thought tattoo, but my list of meaningful options included "dinosaur" and "Mickey Mouse."

I would have bought the high tops, but then I was like, "I'd need matching underwear, and then maybe a baseball cap, but my head is a weird size," and that snowballed for an hour before I said F*#@ IT. I knew what I had to do.

I got in my car, drove to Rudy's, and stripped.

Well, bleached. Rudy's is a hair salon (also a man who took me to dinner once, but pretended we were going to split it, so that ended.)

I must say, the new hair is exactly the right amount of social media attention I needed to make 26 feel worth it. As my notifications continue to pour in, I'm starting to peruse workout regimens. Maybe one day, I'll achieve my dream of dancing on bars for dollars.

Don't worry Mom. I still have to figure out what I can pierce first.

Double tap to like,

TJB: Making It

Welcome to the World

I thought I had seen the last of eventful birthdays. Then, I was reminded by Obama that I will be kicked off of my health insurance at the end of this month.

The big 2-6. That feels like a pretty random age to boot somebody off of their parent's health insurance. Verizon could care less how long I stay a child. Perhaps Congress thought I'd finish undergrad at 22, have my JD or MBA by 26, and then my big-bad big-boy job would pick me up from there. I think the Affordable Care Act and I both had higher hopes for me post-2010.

Luckily, I'm not only a waiter, I'm a corporate full-time waiter. That means for the small price of my food allowance each paycheck, I can have my own healthcare. I say "food allowance" because there is no way I'm decreasing my red wine budget or not purchasing every episode of Dance Moms on iTunes because

THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN BLURRY STREAMING WHILE  TRYING TO WATCH THE NATIONAL GEM THAT IS MADDIE ZIEGLER.

I'll just stop buying fresh deli meat and bananas. That should save enough to see a doctor.

Looming adulthood had me down. Not only was I forced to have my own health insurance, I did my own taxes because I couldn't afford to pay somebody else to do them. Now I'm convinced every missed call is the IRS because there is no way all of my number typing should have yielded the results it did. And even though I should be happy with my return, I'm shouting like my grandpa cursing the government for robbery.

I decided I couldn't hold on to the blood money any longer. There were too many ill feelings seeing it just sitting in my bank account, earned by me, stolen from me, then thrust back in my face like a guilt-soaked apology from Uncle Sam. I did what any self-respecting millennial would do.

I went straight to the Apple store and bought a new MacBook Pro.

That's right. I knew the day after they announced all the cool new shit, they'd try to flush out all the dated shit, and I will drink from that toilet like a thirsty dog.

Surely all ten of you reading this are doing so on a Mac, but I am typing this from my first. Let me tell you, I have been living in the past. I can achieve anything just by swiping my fingers across the touch pad. Honestly, I pretty much typed this whole thing just by looking at the screen. Apple is MAGIC.

Maybe 26 will be uneventful or complete Hell, but at least I'm approaching it like a true adult: with healthcare and lots of Apple devices.

Ah shit, I probably should've paid my rent instead.

"Siri, remind me to pay my rent next month."

Baby steps to adulthood,

TJB: Making It

Papa Can You Hear Me?

The older I get, the more I realize how lucky a guy like me is to have a dad like mine. The older my dad gets, the more I realize how much I like him. Today he turned...well...the math feels really hard to do right now and he kind of stopped aging after 45, so we'll say he's somewhere north of that.

Yes, he colors his hair. No, he doesn't care that you know that. The dude is a baller and still has hair, so just pray I inherited those genes and not the mother's-father ones.

My dad (A.K.A. Dr. J) is a psychologist. Being raised by a psychologist is probably the biggest blessing and curse God could hand a child. My sister and I were not free of our F-ups, but any problems we did have could easily be overshadowed by any genre of psychological literature we'd find lying around the house.

Well, until we hit puberty. Then we gave those books a run for their money.

But Dr. J handled us in stride. There is only one occasion in which I remember him even raising his voice, and that was after my sister and I pretended to have "gone missing" and hid in our neighbor's basement for an hour. And that was pre-puberty, so just imagine what shit we pulled later. The dude didn't even blink.

My dad (and shout out to Mom) is (are) so cool that I even considered moving home this year. I was like, "Yeah, I could handle that." But Dad was not as cool with it, so he handed me his old jalopy and said, "Get your ass to Los Angeles because I believe in you."

Don't misinterpret that. My life is not being bankrolled. I am poor. Very poor. My Dad is not, but I am, and I'm proud of that. I have something to aspire to.

And since I am so lucky to have this father that has bestowed such gifts upon me, I thought I would share them with you, since you're probably not as lucky because how could you be? So, here you are.

The Wisdom of Dr. J

NOTE: This advice would normally cost you a lot of money to be given professionally, so feel free to Venmo me any donations you'd like. I'll make sure my dad gets a cut. 

1. "Short term pain for long term gain." OK, starting with the least original yet incredibly crucial. I'm still sort of living this one out, so let's not dwell on it. You get it.

2. "A lot can change in a day." Every time he says it, you feel ominous shivers through your spine. I spend endless hours stressing about the future until I feel nauseous, but my dad is always there to remind me that we control very little about what will happen tomorrow, next week, or next year. We can only ask ourselves to be our best right now.

3. "Book Smarts are not Street Smarts." Dr. J was very clear that growing up, he did not do very well in school. In fact, kids used to call him "Short Bus". I was a snotty valedictorian, and every time I gave my dad sass he would remind me, "I may have rode the short bus to school, but I was always looking out the window." That was his way of reminding me that remaining perceptive and relating to people on a human level can be far more important than intellectual ego.

4. "We are legends in our own minds." Speaking of ego, this is one of my favorites. I was raised to be humble, and I like to think I maintain a sense of groundedness. Yes, I think I am awesome, but I try to remember not to expect others to believe the same. Whenever I felt like I didn't receive the praise I deserved or was overlooked for something I should have had in the bag, Dr. J threw this piece of wisdom at me. Work hard, expect nothing.

5. "You get a gold." To this day, this is the most rewarding thing I could hear my father say. No gifts, no accolade, no real medal could compete with hearing this simple confirmation from one of the most inspirational men you've ever met. Whether it was a well executed cannon ball into the pool or getting into the school of my dreams, this is all I ever needed to hear. You don't need a trophy, you just need to know.

I could write books full of wisdom I learned from my father, and when I'm famous enough to make money off of them, I probably will. You, on the other hand, just need to know that there is nothing you can't make it through with just a little bit of motivation like my dad's.

And if life ever gets too much to handle, just plan a quick trip to Disney World. That is Dr. J's surefire cure-all.

I love you Dad,

TJB: Making It

Barsexual

I love gay bars. In fact, if I'm going to hit the town, there are very few places I'm willing to go that aren't gay bars. It's not because I'm trying to find a lay or a level of turnt (that means drunk, Mom) beyond what a non-gay bar could provide. In fact, I used to go to gay bars solo to do crossword puzzles while I sipped martinis and listened to Madonna.

I simply love the culture, the history, the kitsch, and sure, I appreciate the aesthetic of the clientele.

There are certain gays that say they hate gay bars. I'm never sure why. Maybe it's because they're still clinging to the closet door, compensating for something they lost when they came out, feeling that giving in to the culture completely would fully feminize any ounce of masculinity they had left.

After all, who would take you seriously once they saw a photo of you on Facebook with your shirt off at "Invade the Hole Tuesdays"?

Which is not a night I frequent by the way. But only because they could have come up with a better name like "Take It All Tuesdays" or something with alliteration. People love alliteration. Use it more.

On a recent trip to one of my favorite gay bars for my favorite Monday night drag show, I was confronted by one of my biggest gay bar faux pas:

The Straight Girl at a Gay Bar.

For my heterosexual ladies, here's a rule: never go to a gay bar without a gay man.

But why would you? Answer: bachelorette parties. NO. Never. Chuck E. Cheese's would not allow me to have my 23rd birthday at any of their Chicagoland locations, so why should gay bars allow you to celebrate your last night of acceptable debauchery in their establishment? Not the place, not the space.

For my heterosexual ladies following gay men (and stop saying "your gays") to a gay bar, reflect on the situation. If he asked you to go with him, maybe it's because he's a little timid. Still, just because he's a tad shy does not mean you have to compensate by taking six extra shots and approaching every attractive man shouting, "You HAVE to meet my friend!"

If there's a show, keep it low. You should not be the loudest one in the audience. Really, in any audience, but especially not at a show trying to celebrate a culture that you really have no part in beyond those free condoms you gathered at LA Pride still sitting in your drawer.

Respect, or you'll end up like the bitch I saw Monday night who was just trying to get to the bathroom, but instead fell across five stools before hitting the ground hard because she couldn't hold her liquor past 10PM.

Wasn't cute and we don't forget.

And don't ever think going to a gay bar means you don't have to look cute because you're "not trying to impress anyone." You're trying to impress everyone because you're on our turf now. That top knot? Absolutely NOT. Make a hair choice.

Flats? Not on my stage. You'd wear the heels if you heard that hunk you saw on Tinder was going to be here, and we deserve twice as much respect as he does. You only have three mutual friends with him, but we'll all be your friend if you just leave the Tory Burch flats behind.

And "this" is not "your jam." Not here. Not now. Save it for your sorority sisters.

To the gays who hate gay bars, give them another try. Think of them as a place to celebrate Stonewall and all the fights for rights that came before you could watch porn on your phone.

To the straight girls who go to gay bars, just think. Think long and think hard.

I'm LGBTCute,

TJB: Making It

I Get Around

The most irritating thing you can ask a sick person is, "What do you have?"

Every time somebody asks, I come so close to shouting, "AIDS. Full blown AIDS." Do they want you to describe how many times you've vomited or nearly shat your pants in the previous hours? Are they hoping to catch you in a bold faced lie when you don't have a fast answer?

I'm not sure what I have, but I hope you're next. Now scan the damn DayQuil and STFU. 

And if you do answer, you're met with the inevitable, "It's going around." Seriously, make up any answer combining nose/ear/throat/stomach/bowels, and it's going around. 

I hope you're next. 

Of course, everything is 20x more irritating when you're sick. Like the fact that I live among my roommate's juicing habit. I've put up with it (off and on since he has commitment issues) for three years, but this morning, shuffling through the fridge looking for some OJ, I have to machete my way through stacks of rotting celery, spinach, carrots, three month old kale, and a heap of ginger. 

And hey, maybe I should have been the one juicing, since my empty bottle of red wine next to his 8-piece designer industrial juicer seems to be the closest thing to vital nutrients I get. But all I can think while curled up in the fetal position is, "Eat a f*cking apple and get over yourself."

But then I'm all, "You're right. I should take care of my body. The McDonald's I pity fed myself yesterday did not fix anything. Sick people eat soup, right?" So I go out to buy soup. 

Off to the store, just wanting two cans of soup, but there I am standing in line behind some bimbo and her boyfriend who can't figure out how to pay for their parking. The number one skill necessary to survive in LA. The dagger in the whole scenario? She's holding a cold pressed juice. Or fresh pressed juice, or what the hell is the difference between pressed, squeezed, and blended? Probably seven dollars and a minimalist label. 

Finally, some guardian angel in the form of an old crotchety dude shouts, "YOU CAN'T JUST KEEP STICKING IT IN!" and boy have I been THERE. 

So they walk away and Lord knows how they got out of the parking structure, but all I wanted to do was come home and eat my soup. 

I get home and make the soup, and then I remember I HATE soup. It's just a bunch of vegetables thrown into water. F&@#, I might as well have juiced. 

Back into the car I go - nauseous but somehow still starving - to McDonald's thinking, "Just take me now, God. Just take me now."

Survivor, 

TJB: Making It

Journalism: What Is It Good For?

While I spend a large chunk of life scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I put concerted effort towards not clicking anything. One, because if you click on something, Facebook assumes you want to see everything that person has ever done. Two, because I understand every status and article posted is put forth to garner reaction, and I also spend a lot of time trying not to have any reactions whatsoever. To anything.

Then, I fell into the ole' "Did I sleep with this guy?" trap, and suddenly I was clicking and scrolling through an article about Katy Perry when I became more irate than I have since I saw the trailer for The Last Five Years.

"Katy Perry: What Is She Good For?" written for Gawker by Rich Juzwiak

At first glance, I thought the article was a snappy review of Katy Perry's recent Super Bowl halftime performance. Those gays always know how to serve it. Within sentences, I realized it was nothing beyond what the title had promised. This was a straightforward personal bashing of Katy Perry. And if this article wasn't enough, the author was kind enough to link to his previous articles of equal disdain towards Perry. 

Loves Madonna though, that one. 

I do have a rule that if you're going to make fun of somebody, make sure they have millions of dollars. I HATE Jonathan Groff. I also understand the purpose of Gawker. If you're unfamiliar beyond its surface-level-sass-posing-as-journalism, I suggest taking the time to read "Everybody Sucks" by Vanessa Grigoriadis before you read Gawker again. It appeared in New York in 2007, and is actually a snappy review of Gawker and not simply what the title seems to promise. 

Take notes, Juzwiak. You were almost thirty when it published and not even working at TV Guide yet. 

But F*&# Katy Perry for not being able to dance and still making millions, so let's be sure to max article hits by compiling mean zingers and memes we saw on Tumblr to get this shit posted by morning! Put that journalism degree to WERK, hunty. 

And please, everybody, stop saying Missy Elliot stole the show. Why? Because she hasn't managed to maintain relevance? I loved 2005 as much as the next closet-case, but stole to show? If you're aching for justification, Juzwiak links you to Gabrielle Bluestone's very cute snippet she churned out to meet her content quota. She also once wrote an article about cute, terrified babies, and she went to LAW SCHOOL. 

America, what have we done to our over-educated masses?

Let me make it clear that I'm not trying to hate on Gawker writers or Juzwiak (maybe). He's gorgeous. He knew exactly when to shave his head post hairline-forsaking, he has beautiful biceps, and I think I saw him at The Eagle in New York wearing a leather harness and navy blue jockstrap once. If not, I'd like to.

I, on the other hand, am skinny-fat, refuse to let go of my hair as it lets go of me, and write a blog that's not even real. 

So my point is, as I struggle to get out of bed every morning in a city I don't even like because I want to follow my dreams of being a writer, it's nauseating to see people with real talent (his writing is quite good) and education even better than mine (forgot I went to Northwestern), one decade beyond where I am now (I'm very young), still spewing out basic hate speech instead of intelligent or even creative content. 

I begin to wonder at what point do we let go of our artist dreams, flip a coin, and sell out for the sake of stability, compensation, and clicks. And I just hope I get to be Katy Perry when I do. 

JK I'm ready. Call me, Gawker. 

I opened 15 tabs to write this, 

TJB: Making It

What is Indigestion: An Adult is Born

I stood staring at the one woman in line for the bathroom at the otherwise empty Peet's Coffee & Tea in Santa Monica. Peet's are almost always empty, so I was a little peeved that the one patron other than myself was the only thing keeping me from relief before an hour-long drive in gridlock traffic across the 10 to home.

Or is it the 110? I can never remember. They both suck. 

Either way, the woman looked like one of those marathon urinators. I could just tell it would take her forever to pee and then she would wash her hands for the full recommended twenty seconds while I refreshed my Instagram feed in vain ten more times as I cursed women everywhere for having such ginormous bladders when I could have been in and out in under ten seconds. I pee incredibly fast and keep Purell in my car.

So, I left. 

As I stood waiting to cross the street - already sure I would get a UTI even though I'm not sure how that happens or if boys can get them - I watched a traffic cop stick a ticket on a windshield before climbing into his little clown car. You know the ones. They look like a Radio Flyer with a cardboard box around it. I felt sorry for both suckers, the "cop" doomed to feel power through expired meters and the schmuck who was surely being price gouged by the city of Santa Monica because they just wanted to spend a couple of hours at the beach on MLK Day. 

And then I saw the Michigan license plate. Oh shit. I was the schmuck and I didn't even see the ocean. 

Story goes, I was late for my coffee meeting with the Agent's Assistant because I was coming from another coffee meeting with the Producer's Assistant, and the local traffic through Beverly Hills moving west on any day is daunting. Since I was so flustered and trying to make a good impression, I leapt from my car into oncoming traffic to avoid any further delay and forgot to feed the meter. 

I did take a second to wonder what would have happened if a Prius had hit me. Do you think a Prius could do any damage to a human? They're like made out of foil, right?

The poetic justice of it all is that I successfully got away with an empty meter for an hour and a half, but since I wasted three minutes staring at that woman waiting to pee in Peet's, I paid the price. A fifty dollar price. I blame her fully. 

And what the hell kind of a charge is that for not putting two dollars into a parking meter? Let's see Obama address THAT at his State of the Union. 

As I crawled home riding my brakes at 10mph, I felt a strange pang. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack - I'm probably due for one - but then I realized it was just me growing up. 

In one weekend, I shrugged off a parking ticket. I lost a credit card and called to cancel it. I was gathering W2s to pay my own taxes parent-help-free for the first time (believe it when you see it.) I took a car that I kind of own for an oil change. I bought shelves. SHELVES! I am truly coming into my own out here in LA. 

So even though I'm in my pajamas drinking a beer at 4pm, I've decided to stop calling myself a kid and start calling myself an adult. Because I believe I can do this. And because my bank account reached four figures for the first time since 2007. 

Do I need a prostate exam? When does that kick in?

Adult,

TJB: Making It

Children Will Listen (and talk through the film anyway)

Unlike most gays, I do not have a long emotional history with Into the Woods. I have seen it a good deal and sobbed in the shower to "No One Is Alone" enough times via Pandora to know I'm gayer than Bernie Telsey - and if you know who that is, so are you.

I was even called back for the role of Jack twice in my life. The first time was in college, but once I heard they were setting it in a refugee camp and Jack was singing "Giants in the Sky" as bullets were being fired at him, I said, "NOPE!" and spent the night binge drinking with a few friends. Thank God I did, because we still tell the best story about a dare involving vodka-soaked tampons.

The second callback was for the recent production in Central Park. I was deemed "not ugly enough," (hearsay from my agents) which I tried to take as a compliment, but I cried anyway. For the sake of the art. But good for you, Gideon Glick.

Thus, going into the film, I felt no strong emotions whether the movie would be a hit or a flop. I had heard all versions of reviews since it seemed every Queen in New York had an in to a screening and a need to overshare via Facebook.

So when the ticket taker sadly questioned, "Just one?" as I struggled to pass him my stub while juggling my large popcorn and soda, I held my head high and went Into the Woods. 

And it was fine for a piece of theatre that's humor is successful based on its awareness of being a piece of live theatre. It was kind of like reading an opera. It's just not how it was meant to be seen.

Yes, I get it, this is important for spreading awareness of theatre. We must continue to make it commercially approachable and continue to expand the careers and wheelhouses of award winning actors. Otherwise, how will the rest of us be able to dream we can do it too? I agree.

The emotion of the movie hit me when the old gay man down the aisle from me shuffled past a second time during "Moments in the Wood," and I knew he would not return. Just like that poor baker's wife. I wanted to shout, "Wait! I'm sure 'No One Is Alone' will really bring it home," and it did. I wept.

Then a bunch of CGI happened, and the characters sat down for story time in a weird half-assed wrap-up, and I knew that old man had gone home to play the original Broadway recording on Netflix.

To turn a phrase of Sondheim himself:

"But if life were made of good films, then you'd never know you saw one."

I could still play Jack,

TJB: Making It

where the love-light gleams

That portrait of Santa never comes down.

If you've read my blog or have been within earshot of my whining, you know that I am spending this Christmas solo. 

Don't worry. I bought plenty of sushi and frozen fajita fixings and extra booze in case I'm snowed in or the corner liquor store closes until the new year. 

But this is a big deal. I was raised on this holiday. I grew up down the street from the largest Christmas store in the WORLD. There are Christmas trees and portraits of Santa Claus in my childhood home that never come down. It is literally Christmas 24/7, 365 days a year in Frankenmuth, Michigan. 

Since I can't be with my family in that magical town to give them gifts, and since I am far too poor to afford gifts AND postage, I have decided to share my greatest gift. 

My genius writing. 

Since this post isn't for you (unless you're my family), feel free to skip it. But if you're as obsessed with me as I think you are, and if you appreciate the warmth of Christmas magic, I give you my Top 5 Favorite Christmas Memories. 

Sincerely Santa - circ. 1996

At twenty five years old, I am not ashamed to say that I still believe in Santa Claus. But hey, people still believe in Jesus, and his gifts are way less tangible. However, there was indeed a Christmas in which I discovered Santa was not the one who delivered my gifts.  

I was seven and came down the stairs Christmas morning to see a keyboard set up near the tree. Since I'd been having trouble deciding between learning the violin or piano, I was glad that Santa had made the decision for me. Upon inspecting the gift further, I noticed a note set atop the keys that read, "Merry Christmas. Love, Santa," followed by a smiley face. 

The exact same smiley face my mother used in all of her notes. The gift was not from Santa. Somebody was lying. When I began to distinguish my mother's handwriting on all of the tags, I realized none of the gifts were from Santa. 

Still, instead of jumping to the conclusion that there was no Santa Claus, I logically decided that at the ripe age of seven, I no longer needed Santa to deliver my presents. It was bogus to believe he could hit all the houses in the world, and since I was lucky enough to have parents that could provide for me, there were other children that needed him far more. 

The Wonderful World of Rates May Apply - circ. 2005

OK, I get it, I faced very little adversity as a child, and my 14th trip to Disney World was during Christmas. 

I was sixteen and my sister had just turned eighteen. You can imagine that all we wanted to do was spend time with our parents and Mickey Mouse over the holidays. There are still some sad, sassy-ass photos of us two lurking on a desktop wallpaper somewhere. Luckily, we had just received our very own cell phones that year, colored displays and all. 

We spent the entire trip flipping those phones open and closed to text our friends and assured our parents it was nothing. What did parents know about cell phones? Little did WE know that every time we T-9'd, we were being charged. Well, THEY were being charged. 

Yes, there was a time before texting was unlimited, and boy was it costly. We racked up a wish list of $500 in text messages over four days and kicked off 2006 banned from our phones. 

FUN FACT: I had my first chocolate covered frozen banana that trip. It was just before I came out to my parents. Treat fail. 

Friends are Family - circ. 2006

My dad and I had a Christmas Eve tradition for years. We would wake up early to have breakfast together, walk through Bronner's Christmas Wonderland, and then shop for one last gift for my mom. One year, my dad asked if it would be OK for his friend Kirk to join us. I remember at first thinking, "And ruin our tradition of father/son bonding?" but I didn't want to sound like a brat, so I agreed. 

When we began breakfast, I was still feeling a little put out by having another guest. Then I took my bitchy attitude out of my waffles and started to listen to my dad and his friend talk about their childhood. It was amazing how much they could remember for two old dudes with their brains put together, and Kirk was the only other man in the world who loved Disney World as much as my dad. He really was part of our family. We invited him every year after. I hope my friends will go out of their way in twenty years to have Christmas brunch with me and my bratty-ass kid. 

Kirk passed away a few years ago, but every Christmas, I think about how happy I am he changed our tradition and taught me that the best family is found in the friends we are around (a Christmas rhyme I just made up free of charge).

We Three Kings - circ. 2008

One Christmas home from college, my family was in need of a holiday detox. We decided to regretfully decline all invitations to family gatherings in a unified stance against dysfunction. 

Luckily, my parents both had the flu and my sister was off with her boyfriend, so we had a pretty good excuse for absence. I was left to Facebook chat with my Jewish friends as I sat in the kitchen while my ailing parents occupied the sofas. 

I had never met a Jewish person until college, and I was introduced to their unique Christmas customs. That Christmas Eve, I shared with my parents the story of the Jews and their century old traditions of Chinese food and movies on the holidays. 

So, we called up the Szechuan House of Frankenmuth, popped in White Christmas, and had ourselves a very Jewish Yuletide. Still one of my favorite holiday mishaps to date. 

A Very Bro Christmas - circ. 2010

You know those people who won't take off their sunglasses?

Friends may be the family you choose, but your sister's husband is unfortunately out of your jurisdiction. My sister announced her engagement to my now brother-in-law one holiday season, six months after they met and three weeks after they started dating. They were married six months later.

I was away at college, so I barely knew the dude before I showed up to stand in line next to the alter. But I remember that first Christmas when I woke up and came down to the tree when there were now five of us instead of four. Something about it felt right. He didn't try to steal the spotlight from me and laughed at all my jokes. More importantly, he had gotten me an official U.S. Army backpack. I have yet to find another bag that has ever been as functional as that one, and it always gets me a discount at the Atlanta airport. 

My sister picked the right man, and I look forward to many more Christmases with Michael - and his really badass gifts.  

My 16th trip to Disney World with the Fab 5 Fam.

I may not have my family with me this Christmas, but there are pages of memories that fill my heart with each glass of wine I pour. While I hope this is the only holiday we don't spend together, I know that whatever happens, we have a love that spreads beyond the season.

I'll be home for Christmas. 

If only in my dreams,

TJB: Making It 

A Gay in a Manger

I had just been sitting at my desk staring at my miniscule Christmas tree while "writing" a sixty page television pilot that will likely be read by six people before it becomes a permanent PDF when my mom called.

This is the first Christmas in my 25 years that I won't be with my family, and we're all trying to navigate a new spin on the Solo Season. It's also the first time since moving to LA that I truly realize the gravity of growing up. Pro bono plane tickets are few. The wedding and funeral folklore is real, and even then maybe only one of two (depending on the dysfunctionality of the relationship with the wed or deceased).

As I shook myself from the bah-humbug-haze, I expressed my sadness that not only would I be stuck here for the holidays, but I would be waking up both Christmas Eve and Christmas to work at the restaurant. Mom was quick to find the silver lining that perhaps if I work both this year, the restaurant will let me have both off next year.

And suddenly I imagined the next 365 days of my life showing up to don the same gay apparel apron through the next sixty pages of screenplay.

Now, I have read enough recent articles (or at least headlines) on Facebook to realize that this sounds like white privilege at its worst. The depressed young writer struggles to overcome his uperclass upbringing to support himself and follow his dreams. But I want you to know it's more "gay entitlement." I'm a 6'1" blonde with amazing bone structure who is used to getting my way, so excuse me for the spoiled eggnog speech.

But there are people who get paid to grocery shop for writers, and THEY get Christmas off. Somehow those people can find their own food for a day.

I guess what I'm saying is I support the living wage. I think. If I remember correctly.

I suppose I've made my own bed and now I have to lay in it.

Which is literally what I've been doing all day.

Help me Mariah Carey,

TJB: Making It

Just Dance, Gonna Be OK

Do you know what contact improvisation is? If you do, you probably paid a lot of money like I did for a degree that turned out to be more of a suggestion.

Contact improvisation is a dance technique where two people (or more if you're into that) use a point of physical contact to launch an exploration of movement between their bodies, keeping at least one point of contact the entire time. Here's a link to the Wikipedia article if you really hate your life: SELF-LOATHING.

It's really big in the postmodern dance world, and as I found out last night, equally big between The Boy in the Glasses and his new boyfriend.

Huge disclaimer: I am likely lashing out due to years of bitterness for starting off my relationship with The Boy in the Glasses by puking, crying, and proclaiming his gayness in an attempt to prematurely rip him from the closet. Hey, I was 19 and thought everybody should want to sleep with me. In retrospect, I should have drank less (or at least not cried so much).

But I blog about this guy every now and then, and for some surely dark reason, he's become an unshakable story arch in my existential existence. We've never even had a romantic relationship. Sure, maybe we watched Easy A together in the bed of a drunk girl and made out a bit, but that's just because the movie is so flawless you can't help but be aroused. Beyond that, I mostly just sit in awe of how many people admire him EVEN THOUGH he has an ear piercing.

Cartilage.

Oh, I know.

So when we were at drinks and he asked, "Do you want to meet my boyfriend?" I froze every muscle in my face as fast as I could and squealed, "Oh my GAHD, YES!"

And his new boyfriend really admires him. So much so that I don't think there was a second when their pinkies weren't at least hooked. I was stuck conversing with some kid who went to Chapman (I don't know what or where that is, but the way the conversation went, it's for kids who didn't get into Brown) and had to hear all about his new found career working for a chocolatier.

A chocolatier, you guys. Because being a pastry chef just doesn't cut it.

So I'm listening to a one-man debate on cocoa paste versus real cocoa beans (don't ask, I didn't) while in the corner of my eye, I'm watching this weird contact improv being expertly executed while each sips a drink. I would have called them out on it, but the boyfriend already had a resting face of "the f*ck did you just say?!" and I did not want to exacerbate that gaze. Instead, I appreciated the beer that was purchased for me and ordered a Lyft from the bathroom.

On my way home, I listened to my driver tell me about the restaurant he lost in Fresno, struggling to support his three children, and the story of a homeless man he drove to the Santa Monica Pier pro bono in a weird tale of "we all have hard times," and I reflected on my hard times.

I realized that I have yet to watch my life truly crash and burn, and while I have faith that someday I will be lucky enough to have Grace to fall from, if the worst I have to do is watch an ex-crush be happy in full body contact with another man, well...

I'll just stay home more.

'Tis the season,

TJB: Making It

Indirect Objections

I recently sent an email in which I referenced my attention to detail, and then I sent it without a subject. 

Yet every time I send a selfie to myself from my iPhone I'm warned "SEND WITHOUT A SUBJECT? ARE YOU DRUNK?!" 

Screw you, Google.

So yeah, I'm still waiting to hear back about that job. But who watches DirecTV original series anyway? What even is DirecTV? Are they the dish people? No, wait, they're the people who are like, "Forget the dish! We have more channels!" and you're like, "What's a dish? I just want Bravo."

Point being, whatever you have to tell yourself to get out of bed in the morning, DO IT. I tell myself every day that each failure of employment was meant to be.

Because I moved to LA to be a writer. Luckily enough, I've actually written some good shit. There's something about the acidic personality of Angelenos (that's what they call all people who live in LA, it's OK to say) that has forced me from extrovert to introvert. Therefore, I spend a lot of time at these undersized laptop keys typing like my fingers have tourettes. 

I hope DirecTV is the first one to buy a pilot from me. The title will be "NO SUBJECT" and it will be about nothing, and I'll pretend it was one big full circle. 

You know, I had a lot of great plans for this post, but I just looked down into the can of cold Chef Boyardee I'm eating, and everything sort of came into perspective. I'm just going to head to the living room and hope my roommate updated his Netflix payment information so I can watch Love Actually again. 

I wonder if Groupon would hire me,

TJB: Making It