This is sh*t.

I'm sorry you miss me. I've been pretending I can eat dairy again, so things have been taking longer than they should. Though I vowed to cross it off my diet, I almost gave in today when the McDonald's cashier didn't understand what "black coffee" meant, and I couldn't find a way to explain that black means nothing without sounding racist. Since it was only a dollar, I just pretended I had a friend and ordered a second one "no milk, no sugar". I even got it in a different size. I was very convincing.

Despite my continued panic in the simplest of situations, I have had quite a productive week. Productive, not rewarding. I submitted my writing materials to CBS, but in a last-minute self-sabotage, I pulled my original pilot, inserted a story about a boy I don't even like, and wrote a cover letter about how I'm pretty. Like, really pretty. If that doesn't scream diversity amongst the hordes of hideous television writers, I don't know what will. This is a situation where black means everything. Or even just gay means something. I hope I remembered to say I'm gay. I'm sure there was an elusive reference somewhere in the second paragraph, right after the anatomy of cheekbones.

Or maybe it just goes without saying.

Being a writer is harder than being an actor. When you have a bad audition, it can be forgotten. When you write something bad, you have it saved in three different file formats and backed up on a flash drive. And the rejections will stay in your Gmail archives forever. Data permanence, you know?

Now I have two iced coffees, one laced with enough milk to keep me within 6 feet of a bathroom for days, and one reminding me that I have very little chance of getting into a diversity program for writers.

I think I'll go back to Diet Coke for a few weeks.

You know what? Fuck it. I'm drinking both of these bitches.

On to NBC and IBS,

TJB: Making It