Saturday, June 04, 2005

I am 21 years old. Two weeks ago, I walked across some steps in Virginia and was handed a diploma. Two days ago, I walked across a terminal in Virginia and got on a plane that landed at LAX.

How romantic, I know.

My friend Greg wants to make it in the biz. You know, THE biz. Hollywood. He's been out in LA the past few summers making movie execs coffee, and now he's back again for good for a final stint as an unpaid minion before he takes over the world and earns a star on Hollywood Blvd, etc. etc. Homeboy wants to be a director. But shh don't tell anyone that because everyone and their mother wants to direct, apparantly, and he's got to set himself apart. Along with for the move to the coast are Pyung, econ major and aspiring sitcom writer, and Doug, english/business major and aspiring actor/writer/voice-over man/advertising exec/stay-at-home mom.

How I got here: One night I am reading through some old articles I had written for a school pub and I realized that my best stuff was about TV. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Arrested Development. I had some passion for this stuff. So at 2:39 a.m. on some anonymous morning, I decided that I loved TV, wanted to write for TV, and that would be my life. The end.

The next day Greg IM'd me and asked if I wanted to move to LA. I had been to LA only once before, for one day with my family and I had thought it was, how should I say, god-awful, horrendous, and disgusting. A glorifed traffic jam. Nevertheless, I bought a one-way ticket a week later and here I am, sitting on the floor of a sublet apartment that is lacking a desk, a bed, a chair, a table, or an overturned milk crate. But it's okay. I'm in the city of glitz and glam and blue skies and ocean sunsets. And ruthless businesspeople and social climbers and poverty and racial tension. But whatever. What's good enough for Rachel Bilson is good enough for me.