Writing is a profession that lends itself to being happy in spurts, hungover ofttimes and hungry as sure as it is piercingly sunny in Los Angeles. I write because it makes me happy, and I eat Ramen noodles because that’s what the skill-set affords me at this very moment. Never once have I considered taking a more conventional career path, as I’ve watched people I once considered to be friends revert from being beautiful butterflies back into cubicle-induced pupa. Why? Because greenbacks will do that to you, and I’m a firm believer that there is much more to life than money.
But in Los Angeles, there’s only money when it comes to dating, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about women just as much as I think about penning the next great American novel. As much as I consider myself to be a smart, attentive and clever person, here is where I must make the magic happen with the fairer sex due to my work choice.
There she is in all of her flat-as-a-pancake glory. My bed. On the floor. I’d show you my electric blanket that I’ve been forced to employ like an old Jewish bubby thanks to my broken heat, but discussing bedding logistics seems to be more of a third read kind of thing. On the lucky occasion that a girl might actually want to come into my bedroom, it’s always quite a sight to observe her befuddled face as she tries to wrap her head around the lonely lifeboat nestled in the corner. Without fail, it always brings her back to the moment when she thought she was going to get a pony for Christmas and ended up with earrings from Claire’s Boutique instead. Her face. My shame. Her thoughts…of finding an investment banker with Chiclet teeth instead of a passionate dreamer (who has those dreams in a wadded up piece of chewing gum turned mattress). For every one of those aborted instances between the potential Ms. Right Now and I, and the ineptitude it brings along, something truly magic happens.
I write about it. My writing becomes that much stronger and more focused. The trusty white page and cursor have never once asked me about my stock portfolio or what kind of car I drive. Instead, they’ve looked over me as I sleep soundly on that flapjack. This is where the true magic happens. If only a Los Angeles charlatan would agree. Do I have the desire to be the next great writer in Hollywood? Yes. Can I afford either the Manolo or the Blahnik? No. Welcome to being broke and single.