Hard for me to believe that was over two months and 3 continents ago. Where am I now? I have no fucking clue. I’m falling through space; time-traveling through thousands of lifetimes. In between here and there with no idea of where I’m going. Not sure whether I’m moving backwards or forwards. Not sure of anything but the fact that I’m still just a woman with eight bucks and a 2005 Mac with worn out keys.
I feel like I owe you, my two loyal readers, so many explanations. How I happen to be in the South of France. How I happened upon a whirlwind Euro Tour, how it all began for me in Egypt, 5,000 years ago. How I came up with the idea of filming a satirical online reality show. But as openly as I live my life online, there are some moments when-believe it or not-I need my privacy. This is one of them. I’m going through too much in real time to share it with the world. The truth is, I don’t owe anyone any explanation. Someday maybe I’ll tell the story—or maybe I never will. And that’s entirely my prerogative.
Now that my iPhone is gone, stolen right from under my nose in my sleep, I’m forced to go back to the basics. Writing. I stare at the blank page, sit down to write and a flurry of emotions, frustration and tears blind me from even being able to look at the screen. Ah yes. Always home base. Here alone, in the tips of my fingers that seem to have a mind of their own, am I able to access my deepest truths.
I’m lost and confused. Again. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. For most of my life, as long as I can remember, even from the time I am a child, I never feel like I belong. Anywhere. Not on this planet. Not amongst the humans. Not in my own skin. I struggle to find a sense of normalcy. In the early years I find solace in my studies. In my teenage years I lose myself to partying and disguise my agony in a cloud of marijuana smoke. In my 20’s I just fucking lose it.
For the past five years I have blindly pursued my ambitions to create some kind of writing career in Hollywood. It took gut-wrenching heartbreak to smack me out of my rut and push me into the unknown. I’m not saying I’m giving up on those aspirations by any means, five years is nothing in that town filled with broken dreams and lost angels. But taking that leap of faith, trusting myself and honoring the instinct to flee, has led me to countless adventures, new friends all over the world and the opportunity to live many of my lifelong dreams.
Although, after all of this globetrotting, I’m pretty sure I don’t belong in LA any more. It suddenly seems so small. The culture too shallow. The population too consumed with fame and money. Which leads to the next question: where on Earth DO I belong?
One of the many, many gifts of traveling is the ability to get in touch with your authentic self. After almost a year living out of a backpack recently (reluctantly) turned suitcase, I’ve learned a quite a few things about myself and remembered some others. One of these being that long before I ever wanted to write a screenplay or had an idea for a television show or be a stand up comedian, I wanted to write novels.
I sat down two days ago to write a blog and 4,000 words came pouring out. Phetasy is basically just a memoir in motion, an online book in the making. So I think it’s high time I focus the energy and relentlessly pursue yet another dream—to write one of the three books begging to be born.
I’m not sure where I’m going to end up. But I do know that the only place I truly belong, is sitting my ass in front of a computer, writing, no matter where I am in the world. So, for the moment, with no clear direction, in lieu of freaking out about what a loser I am, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Which means no blogs for a while. I’ll probably keep up with the “Unemployed” series as soon as I can get a new phone. I like the format. I enjoy making them. I have endless material to rant about. It’s one take and it only requires about 5 minutes to shoot and upload from beginning to end. I don’t give a fuck if anyone gets it, likes it or watches it. Plus--being on anonymous, drive-by, heckle-friendly YouTube forces me to maintain that thick skin you need for stand up (something else I have been itching to get back to). But I’m not in London. So until I can purge some of my rage at our culture on the stage, I’m going to purge some of the demons from my past in a nice, cute, darkly comedic novel.
My brain is overloaded with material. From life. From travel. From fucked up experiences. From broken hearts and dealings with douchebags. Most of this juicy material seems too good to write a blog about and besides, if I don’t focus on one of the Three Muses banging on the door, begging for attention, I’m going to end up shoving my head in that oven, after all.