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