I don't have time for through lines.

I listen to podcasts now.

Let's back up. I auditioned for an a cappella group a week ago. It advertised itself as being a creative outlet for those who just wanted to get together and perform. Not for fame, not for glory, just for heart.

OK, they didn't actually say that. Had they said all that, I would have sent them a selfie of my eye roll as an appointment submission.

I've never been good at making friends, but most of the friends I do have were forced to like me through collegiate a cappella. I thought, after spending weeks alone at my kitchen table writing dialogue, that perhaps those forced  friendships could translate to NYC.

No dice. Maybe I shouldn't have talked about my hair so much. Regardless, I have yet to receive an invitation to callbacks.

My roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend suggested I start listening to a Writer's Panel podcast. He thought it would help prove that I am too smart for people on the other side of a table to decide my fate. I thought it would help me feel like I'm in a room with people when I'm actually just in my kitchen staring at a blinking cursor.

We were both right.

Now pick up the phone and tell your parents that you think you have a shot at being a writer. My mom's response was, "At first, we worried you were going to hurt yourself...but we're very proud of you."

When I do make it as a writer, I hope my roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend directs everything I do.

Because nobody can tell you who actually wrote the new X-men, but everybody can tell you that Bryan Singer is a questionable dude. And I want the world to know that my roommate is just as questionable.

Good luck at USC, bitch.

Flying under the radar,

TJB: Making It

Desperation Station

Do you think there was ever a time when breakups were just breakups? Imagine how nice it must have been to sit through the awkward half hour conversation of, “This isn’t working”, and then go home and drink yourself to sleep dreading the next time you’d awkwardly run into him.

Nowadays, you have to go home and drink yourself to sleep while purposefully running into them on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to see if they’ve posted anything that proves they’re as devastated and regretful as you want them to be. There are no longer coincidental run-ins, only stalker set-ups when you happen to think you look really cute today, and it might be worth taking a cab to the Starbucks they just checked into on Foursquare before their cappuccino is even frothed.

Or maybe just update your OKCupid photos since you know they’ve been looking at your profile anyway. They track that shit.

Last night, before I had even finished my first martini, my best friend mentioned I might be a little…”desperate”. She was lucky I’d already eaten the olives and was against wasting liquor, or she’d have been blinded by a flying garnish.

But that’s what best friends are for, right? To tell us the honest truth?

NO, YOU IDIOTS! Best friends are for saying that you were the prettiest one at prom and you were robbed of the crown because everybody was jealous!

OK, maybe I see her point.

The problem is, America, that this is the longest I haven’t had a serious relationship since I was 19. And by “serious”, I mean a jealous boyfriend who constantly texts me wondering where I am while I tell him he’s not the boss of me. And I miss that.

My best friend says I need to be OK with being alone before I can fully open my heart to another person. Then again, she’s had one boyfriend and they’ve been dating for over six years, so maybe she’s not the most qualified to judge me about my “serial dating addiction”. Plus, I spend most of my time staring into the mirror practicing my angles, so I think I’m pretty good at being alone.

Though, I did put in a work request for dimmer lighting in my bathroom. At least until I get my summer glow.

By the end of my second martini and a lot of fried food, I figured my best friend might have a point. I decided to spend last night watching movies, by myself…reflecting…in my twin bed…with four stuffed animals.

Oh GOD I’m going to die alone,

TJB: Making It