Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Oprah Was Wrong, Holy Rollers, & My Writing Coma...

I watched the sun come up this morning and it was weird. Not because I don't enjoy beautiful shades of coral, I think sunsets and sunrises are the greatest, but I was so in the zone from writing last night that began around 6PM Central Standard time, the hours passed didn't even dawn on me. Ha, I love ridiculously cheesy puns so much that if that was the only thing my future husband had to offer, I would totally be okay with it. God, that last sentence was a grammatical hot mess, but I'm still waiting on my new AP stylebook to come in the mail (?) so that can be my excuse for now.

Also Phoebe has been pissed at me lately for lack of attention due to my current dedication towards my recently-formed Ewing team of which gives me pure bliss, securing various writing opportunities for the future, of which Phoebe does not need to be made aware of just yet, and my DCH writing class stuff. Which speaking of, God bless Amanda our teach for having to read all of my lengthy bullsh*t emails, especially the one sent this morning dripping of unnecessary pity party frustrations. I apologize. It's a wonder she has not responded with simply the name and number of a top Dallas therapist yet. Anyway, I tried explaining to Phoebe that her mommy needs to focus as I take my creative outlet and subsequent obligations very seriously. Trust me when I say that it's healthy for everyone involved to leave me alone when I am in the zone. However, it's Phoebe's world and we all just live in it. So teaching her concepts are useless, and I do not expect my entitled, high-maintenance Jack Russell Terrier to understand that learning to be your own friend is a
necessary component in achieving happiness. (right picture: phoebe, my adorable angel currently experiencing teen angst)

As for my monologue, oy vey. My brain is exhausted and for the past seven days I have seriously been unable to stop thinking about Sage's dialogue, how to portray her insane character in a page, two at the most. And in size 12 Courier font. My sleeping patterns are going to need rehab at this point. There are only so many revisions one can do before the initial idea/premise/whole freaking thing is COMPLETELY different than the final draft. And I don't know if I'm obsessing over this because I have an undiagnosed case of severe OCD or because it's really important for me to do my best on it. According to my likely inaccurate Blogger stats, I have consistent readers in France, Germany, Russia, Mexico, Canada, Lithuania, Spain, Ukraine, and the UAE. So, I truly wonder if they read my writing rants and raves, wondering what is wrong with American millennials, specifically me. I wonder if 24-year-olds in those countries have incredibly weird brains and tendencies and passions.  Or if they convince themselves of having undiagnosed brain disorders, or consume copious amounts of coffee when attempting to type words on a screen for a writing class at a comedy house that was signed up for voluntarily in which no grades are given and you don't even pass or fail. Who knows.

I will say, though, my recent weirdness, internal frustration in perfecting my words, constant brainstorming of ideas not even freaking related to reality, and lack of confidence in my creativity has apparently achieved something as I have had two extremely special people mention the positive change they have noticed in my demeanor within the past few weeks. And while I have been more balanced emotionally and focused and [insert any other annoying 'happy' synonym] and determined to appreciate my blessings despite my parents or anyone's opinions, I was not expecting this as we never recognize our own behavior or a change in it.  But I sincerely appreciated it because it's nice to hear a compliment, especially when I am trying to be a more responsible and productive 20-something. Don't get me wrong, I am not trying to sound noble here, but life is good, I am blessed, and for once I am at a point where I rarely think, "oh, everything will be better once I move to New York or LA," and this says a whole lot as I have never been this content in my twenty four years of residing on this fabulous planet.

And fortunately we all have little angels in disguise floating around, like a Pluckers waitress, Uber driver, or really successful and wise human you greatly respect, harshly forcing you to wake up and take care of yourself before it's too late. Of which happened to me. I guess it takes a certain person's words to spark change but I am grateful. Historically, I focused more on others and not myself (this sounds like a disgustingly melodramatic diary of a 16-year-old schoolgirl with braces, I know). And this is confusing because quotes from the Dalai Lama, Oprah, Mother Theresa, buddhists in orange robes, etc. are plastered everywhere preaching to do just that. False. Sort of. (left picture: a realistic ace in hole throwback tuesday photo from park city '14. also my attempt of lightening the mood)

There is only so much satisfaction one can receive from attending every single bar night flowing with Tito's and spent as if it were New Years Eve. I now understand this. And being an animal roaming all hours of the night was standard at SMU but nowadays, physically, I am 24 going on 80. It just ain't that easy anymore. And I'm not implying I am now a holy-roller, anti-dancing prude in bed by 9PM, anyone that knows me knows that will never be the case as I'm always down for some fun. But I have turned an exciting, new leaf as a 24-year-old work in progress, and I am proud of myself and basically eligible to be Oprah's apprentice. Just saying. (Totally kidding). I still take birthdays, major holidays (especially 4th of July), awards season, etc. seriously. Just in moderation because certain nights are off limits now with my recently-discovered passions teaching me valuable life lessons sans deceptive Dalai Lama quotes. Therefore the excessive (and expensive) nights of going balls to the wall, as most of my friends do, but result in me being too tired are just not worth it anymore. Being unable to function or give 100% at my improv/writing and/or ability to enjoy shows/actually learn from the troupes is something that I refuse to fall prey to.

So to the two ladies who came to me please know that I appreciate both of you and your sweet sentiments. *Four for both of you Glen Cocos). Your words are cherished and have assured me that maybe the insanity I thought I was experiencing from my character monologues, et al. is just productivity and goodness and discipline. No? Does that even make sense? Was this whole post basically a MySpace diary entry? Probably. God bless you all. And for the record, Phoebe, my once-supportive writing sidekick has been asleep for the past two hours. So that's just fine because I may go buy a fancy beta fish to sit on my desk and float around as my new writing support all day and night. And that won't yawn at my Kenny G station on the Pandora or chew up my underwear when I'm not paying attention. So booyah. (right picture: potential new writing companion's headshot)