It just all seems like such a dream to me: that I ever lived in Los Angeles, that I studied at UCLA, that I worked with the Kovacs, that I ate lunch on Melrose, that I worked on Days of Our Lives, that I had the opportunity to move to New York and removed my energy from that option, that I drank wine at the Hollywood Bowl, that I stood atop my apartment building and watched car accidents getting cleaned up, that I snuck my laundry up to the 7th floor machines, that I had friends and plans and things and places familiar to me. It just feels like it never happened. Yet I’m a different person for having lived those moments. The HOLA kids, the CBS job, happy hour at Acapulco, the Santa Monica Pier… all of these things impact my life still today. In just three months, I’ve pulled so far away from my LA life. I’ve also pulled away from what I thought living in Atlanta would be. I’m not writing. I’m not making enough money even to survive. I’m not creating. The only dreams I have are of things that may not even begin for months; if they begin at all. Rather than enjoying this precious time with my mother, I find myself longing for the next time that I can live alone. I’m excited about getting to make new friends, yet I’ve made none here. It’s like I’m praying every day that I just make it, please Lord, just one step closer to The Next Place without killing anyone on the way. Substitute teaching is a drag. Working out is a physical distraction. Sleep is hibernation. Yet there are still seven hours a day left to kill somehow. I’m reading a lot. Watching TV. Daydreaming. Wishing. Fantasizing. Biding my time like a prisoner.