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

People Who Need People

Long before I started a blog, I had this plan to write a book where each chapter was dedicated to a person who had somehow influenced my life's direction in chronological order. I started a draft of it on the first computer my family owned when I was in 6th grade. Somewhere on a Gateway hard-drive in the back of my parent's basement is Chapter 1. It's about a girl I had a crush on in pre-school whose name I couldn't remember until I met her again when she was on my sister's softball team 7 years later. I offered her half of my last piece of gum. True chivalry. She declined.

I had a conversation this weekend with someone I had just met who asked about why I moved back to Chicago. I gestured to a group of my friends and said, "People." The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Him: You moved back here for them?
Me: No, I moved back here because I wanted to spend time with them.
Him: And because you wanted to give up acting?
Me: I don't remember saying that.
Him: But you're not acting.
Me: Correct.
Him: So what are you doing?
Me: Spending time with them.

Yes, I was purposefully trying to be a dick, but I feel we too often complicate the reason we do things, or rather, complicate what we think we should  be doing.

For instance, people who crave soup. I'm not trying to generalize by saying that everyone who has ever said they're craving soup is full of shit. However, I think most people are afraid to say, "I'm feeling fat, so I should keep my calorie intake under 300," or, "I'm broke-ass, so I shouldn't spend more than $3."

But to be clear, nobody craves hot water with vegetables in it.

Today as I was on my run (because I don't want to be fat and have a poor body-image), I began thinking about what an influential man had once taught me. You have to know exactly why you're doing something in order to get any real fulfillment out of it. Rarely is that reason complicated. Unfortunately, we often feel pressured to make it so. You want artistic fulfillment? Great, but if you really just want to be rich and famous, you won't get either. If you could just admit you want to be rich and famous from the get-go, you still might not get it...but you'll at least expedite the process of false soul-searching and approach it with the necessary drive.

Why am I doing what I'm doing? Because I want to be happy and have fun. My life since graduating college has been a clusterf*ck, but every decision I've made has been in the pursuit of fun. Sure, some people see that as noncommittal and irresponsible, but everything I've done, I've given it 110%.

I also want to be rich and famous and have everyone think I'm really pretty. But, we all want that.

What do I need to achieve those dreams? People. We all need people. And you might as well like the people you need, because if you don't, it will feel empty every time they tell you how pretty you are.

Now let me skip the false soul-searching and say this: I will continue to make a lot of sporadic and off-the-cuff decisions in the pursuit of myself. But oh my GOD is it fun. If it weren't, you probably would've stopped reading this piece of shit blog years ago.

But if you stick with it, there might just be a chapter reserved for you somewhere on a Gateway hard drive.

I'm off to eat some soup because I'm feeling fat and broke-ass,

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

pin now, read later

The psychology of an addict is a complicated thing. We are delicate creatures. And though I am recovering, America...I had a relapse last night.

That's right. I was just one iPhone screen touch away from purchasing a one-way ticket to New York.

I am addicted to running. A lot. Both literally (although I hurt my ankle, thanks for caring) and metaphorically. I'm like Julia Roberts in that movie I don't really remember, but there were lots of wedding dresses and cute guys, so I was on board.

You see, I went to this super swanky, open bar, artist's birthday party on the south side of Chicago that my friend invited me to. He has a pretty serious girlfriend, so I made sure to confirm that other friends would be attending. Since I am about as single as it gets, I had to ensure I wasn't the third wheel.

Turns out, I was the 9th wheel.

They weren't all couples, but I sort of realized that I was the only one without a party buddy. Sure, I was really feeling it when I was in the bathroom line and some ex-model kept telling me I needed to be in magazines, but as soon as she peed, I was left with my flickering ego and six too many vodka drinks. The lady at the snack table was even concerned once I hit my third bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and wasn't high.

A reminder this is about my addiction to RUNNING...not substance abuse...Mom...

So, I posed for a few inevitable photos and decided I should duck out. I pulled an Irish Goodbye. But when I found myself walking 10 blocks to a bus I wasn't sure was going to show up, I sort of regretted my choice. Not because I was afraid of the south side at night (I was terrified), but because I was acting like a baby.

A baby with an iPhone. I am shocked how efficiently I could pull up a  flight to JFK. Fortunately, I couldn't find the information for my 50 JetBlue dollars I had sitting in an account somewhere, so I decided I would have to put off buying the ticket until the morning. Then, I made sure everybody knew just how upset I was.

How did we embarrass ourselves before text messaging?

I woke up this morning and deleted the conversations. I trusted that the world was sort of used to this by now. It was time I sat myself down for a serious talk. By serious talk, I mean I sang along to every emotional Katy Perry and Whitney Houston song I could find on YouTube. Yes, they were karaoke tracks. I don't need the competition. 

Once I dragged myself out of bed for coffee (7-Eleven because I didn't deserve Starbucks), I found a photo from last night in my coat pocket. The party looked pretty awesome. I was pretty lucky to have been invited to such a cool party. I was even more lucky to go to it with such cool friends.

WOW I can be such a whiny bitch. I had 3 open bars with unlimited Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and all I could do was feel sad because nobody was paying attention to me and I wasn't dating Ryan Gosling. I was like a fat girl on Pinterest with a cat in my lap, clicking shit without thinking. Time to LOG OFF and SHAPE UP!

This is why you're single,

TJB: Making It

Ex-istential Crisis

There I was, sitting next to the new boyfriend who had no idea I was the old boyfriend. All he knew was that I was the "friend" his current boyfriend had been catching up with, and let me just say:

nobody wants their boyfriend catching up with friends that look like me.

Had I been a littler quicker, I would have thought to ask the box office attendant to switch me to a seat in the back, not next to 185 pounds of baggage. But I was stuck, a towering 6'1", shaking hands with New Boyfriend and welcoming him to Chicago. I was flippin' cherry cordial.

Until three people who knew very well that I was Old Boyfriend came up to hug New Boyfriend without so much as a warning glare in my direction. Let's just say, I practically memorized that program by the time the lights dimmed.

I admit, I had never felt younger, prettier, or smarter than I did sitting there, listening to the-other-friend-who-belonged-there talk to New Boyfriend. But as I read the list of money donors for a third time to avoid having to participate in the conversation, I couldn't  shake that bitter taste from my mouth.

Because I had been drinking A LOT that morning.

I sat and said nothing between dance numbers as I choked back tears from the combination of beautiful choreography and my sad, sad situation. I waited outside during intermission, and when the show ended, booked it to a hidden corner of the hallway to wait for my goodbye.

I walked home singing "On My Own" as if Cameron Mackintosh were on the street casting. My life felt the fast approaching of "A Little Fall of Rain", and knowing they cut that song in HALF for the movie, I needed a pick-me-up before I dove into Adele.

So, I took a shower and washed that man right out of my hair. Full voice. Sorry neighbor.

I believe that one day, there will be somebody awesome to sit next to my old boyfriend at my shows. Until then, I'll try to figure out why anybody would want so may tattoos.

I ate lunch twice today,

TJB: Making It

Mormon or More Men...no judgement.

When you're the gay at a Mormon wedding, you're bound to feel a little awkward. There is, of course, the inevitable Prop 8 joke. On top of that, you realize you can't help but dress like an ad for the local chapter of PFLAG even if you put on tennis shoes. The skinny jeans will always win. But I had been friends, nay, BROTHERS with the groom for years, and never once did our difference in beliefs get in the way of love.

Boy oh boy, was this weekend full of love. While it was, of course, full of debauchery and shenanigans that I'm afraid to put into writing for fear I'll never forget they happened, there were also the times full of sobriety, in which we experienced something that transcended simple marriage.

I'm not afraid to admit I held the ignorant belief that most deeply religious people had the need for marrying anyone they could stand for more than three weeks before they turned thirty. Leaving college without a ring is like leaving the house without your pants on (which may have happened on the trip...I can't remember). But when I met the bride, and when I saw them look at each other, it was very clear that this love had nothing to do with convenience of matching religions. These were soul mates.

And I say if you are able to love another person so deeply, so truly, and so honestly...much belief beyond that doesn't matter. We all believe in love.

We all also believe that if you make through an entire weekend with my bros, there HAS to be a God.

In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit,

TJB: Making It

sym-PATHETIC

Things are starting to settle down here in the Windy City. I've had my job for a month. I've learned everything I can about my neighbors via paper thin walls and shrill girl voices (theirs, not mine). The Starbucks guy knows my name.

Ok, to be fair, we have the same name, so it was easy for him to remember and sometimes I still have to remind him, but HEY I'm a regular at least.

Overall, my novelty is wearing off. My friends have even started to choose staying in over humoring my liver on the weekends.

And I thought, maybe that's what I'm missing...a reason to stay in. Someone who thinks I look just as good in sweatpants as I do in a tie. Someone to lay on the couch with while scrolling through Netflix to tell me it's OK I didn't go to the gym today because I was up early for work and deserve to rest. Someone I don't have to make plans with because we ARE our plans.

Just kidding, I don't want to be lame. No offense, but I don't even own sweatpants.

I didn't move halfway across the country to settle down. I moved halfway across the country to shake things up. So the next time you try and tell me that work was hard and you're tired and you're poor, I want you to look deep into my eyes and know that I'm not listening.

Then, I'm going to slap you across the face and tell you to put on your goddammed coat because we are going out while we still get carded.

It's for your own good.

You'd do the same for me,

TJB: Making It