Tomorrow's another day and I am not afraid. So bring on the rain.

“Grown-ups like to tell you where they were when President Kennedy was shot, which they all know to the exact second, which makes me almost jealous, like I should have something important enough to know where I was when it happened, but I don’t yet.”

A couple of summers ago, in a bout of ‘90s nostalgia, I decided to devote a weekend to marathoning the entire first (and only) season of My So-Called Life. I was a huge fan of the show when it first aired in 1994-1995. Angela Chase (Claire Danes) and I were the same age -- 15 -- and it finally felt like someone was paying attention to 15-year-olds. I mean, there were “Sweet 16” parties and 17-year-olds had a magazine named after them, for goodness sakes! But, now I had Angela Chase and she was speaking my language. (A language that, in retrospect, featured the words “like” and “whatever,” as well as copious amounts of run-on sentences.)

At first, my little marathon was nothing more than a chance to lay on my bed all weekend and reminisce about my purple Jan-Sport backpack, my Dexter loafers, my hunter green Girbaud-for-the-sake-of-being-able-to-say-I-had-a-pair-of-Girbaud jeans, and the first time a boy told me that I looked nice. (For the record, thank you, Doug L. for that moment after sophomore year World History.) Then, I got to an episode called “Guns and Gossip” and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. As was customary with the show, Angela’s voiceover kicked in as the first scene faded in, giving us the quote that kicked off this blog entry. (Clip.) Little did Angela know -- little did writer Justin Tanner know -- that almost exactly seven years to the day after the episode originally aired (Sept. 8, 1994), Angela would get her moment. And I’d be willing to bet she knows where she was. Right down to the second.

I know where I was: inside 310 Gaston Hall, Texas Tech University, Lubbock, Texas, 79406. Asleep. But I will never ever forget the moments after I woke up. I can still feel the cold of the tile floor of my dorm room as I climbed out of bed and shuffled to my desk. I can still feel the just-woke-up-tightness in my lower back as I bent over to look at what e-mails might have come overnight. And I can feel the confusion when I saw the e-mail from my younger sister with the subject line “BOMBS.” The body of the e-mail is too profane to share, but to paraphrase, Katy expressed a very strong interest in joining the FBI or CIA in order to take the terrorists out.

Craving some sort of context, I flipped my TV on to find what I literally thought was the beginning of Armageddon. Smoke was billowing from a hole in the Pentagon, from both of twin World Trade Center towers, and from a smoldering hole in a rural Pennsylvania field. I saw people jumping out of the towers -- an image I will never, ever forget. I saw the towers fall. I’d like to say that the next thing I did was pray or, at the very least, brush my teeth, but I can not. Instead, I did the only thing I knew to do in that moment: I dialed my dad’s office. The first words out of my mouth were, “Daddy, what’s happening?”

The rest of the day was chaotic. Girls who should have been spreading gossip, walked up and down the halls of the third floor, spreading news of what they’d heard. Someone had heard there were planes heading to Dallas, Houston, and Austin, fears that were thankfully allayed with the reports that all planes had been grounded. I went to my Film Studies class, only to be sent home after roll was taken. I went to Wal-Mart and bought red, white, and blue streamers to decorate my door with. I watched more news coverage and saw a toothless old woman in Gaza celebrating in the streets. Up to this point, I had felt only a numb form of sorrow and confusion. Now I was angry. I went to my last class of the day which my instructor helpfully turned into a sort of an open forum to discuss the day’s events. I went with my friends Ugo and Olivia to church to pray. That night, the numbness finally gave way and, as I sat in my desk chair watching news coverage of the search for survivors, I began to sob.

Over the next couple of days, I had different urges. At one point, I wanted nothing more than to stuff clothes in a bag, pack some sandwiches in a cooler, and drive to New York to do what I could to help. At another, I wanted to walk into the Armed Services Recruitment Center on University Avenue. But for the most part, all I could do was lay on my bed with the television on, a cloud descending upon me as if I was Eeyore from the “Winnie the Pooh” stories.

----------------------

Now, ten years later, I only remember a couple of things clearly from the following days and weeks. The first was a surge of national unity, the likes of which I’d never seen. Both Houses of Congress came together to sing “God Bless America” that Tuesday night. People made musical tributes (this was before video software came pre-loaded on every new computer). When I drove home to San Angelo the following weekend, farmers had painted “GOD BLESS AMERICA” on bales of cotton in fields. More American flags than I can ever remember seeing popped up on the landscape along U.S. Highway 84 and State Highway 208. My driving music of choice was the soundtrack for Pearl Harbor, which, I guess, was appropriate. (Say what you will about the quality of the movie, but the soundtrack is quite beautiful.) The music, combined with the images of my country, my state, my home, gave me goosebumps. To this day, when I listen to that soundtrack, I no longer think of Ben Affleck or Josh Hartnett -- I think of Post, Snyder, and Colorado City, Texas.

(Given all of the political animosity of late, I really miss that unity -- even if it did come at a price.)

Most of all, though, I think of the fear -- on a personal and a national level. I remember telling my mother through tears that I couldn’t imagine bringing a child into a world where this could happen. I worried that if we went to war, my brothers might be drafted and sent overseas. Earlier that spring, I had visited and fallen in love with Los Angeles, but all of a sudden, the perceived safety and security of a smaller, lower-profile town seemed the best option. As a nation, many of us -- I would say the majority -- began to cast a suspicious eye on anyone of Middle Eastern descent. Whether you feel that suspicion was warranted or not, looking back, I actually feel pretty guilty about it.

We may have lost the unity, but fear remains. We’ve got political candidates talking about banning mosques. I don’t even want to get into the ridiculous hullabaloo that arose when people alleged that President Obama was a Muslim. The word “socialism” is thrown around in a similar manner to the word “communism” during McCarthyism. People are afraid that their own marriages are going to somehow be devalued if same sex couples are allowed to marry. People are afraid of what happens if a subway runs through their neighborhood. In fact, I honestly feel that most of the hot button issues of the moment are rooted in some sort of fear.

Life is too short, people. Jesus and Hugh Grant said it best:

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love” 1 John 4:18

(Actually, that was John talking and not Jesus. But still.)

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion love actually is all around.”

(And okay, okay... That’s talking about hate and revenge, but as we all know, fear leads to anger and anger leads to hate. Thank you, Yoda.)

By the grace of God, the love of my family, and the friendship of some pretty amazing people, I moved to Los Angeles after all. I’m not saying I’m completely over some of my fears. My heart stops when I see a plane flying lower than what I am comfortable with and I sometimes have to take an anti-anxiety pill when I board a flight, but the other stuff? Gravy. Yes, the city I’ve chosen to make my home is a known terrorist target, but I’d have never met so many of the wonderful, wonderful people in my life if I’d opted to stay home. (The thought actually makes me emotional.) I love my life and my friends and the big smile on the face of Ramez when I stop for a (forbidden) Diet Coke on the weekends.

If God forbid something happens to me -- whether it’s from my city actually being attacked, or an earthquake, or something as mundane as a traffic accident -- I hope the way I live my life and the way I interact with people will lead me to be remembered with two short words: Amanda loved.

Because I do.

Calls to me throughout the day, see the feathers fly.

It's never good when someone begins seriously comparing themselves to George Oscar Bluth. Never good, but alas, that's where I'm finding myself. Sitting and wondering and maybe stress-eating (maybe) about the fact that perhaps I've made a huge mistake.

Last month, after returning from a blissful trip to the south with my BFF, I decided that I was going to quit my job. At the time I made this decision, I had decided to move back to Texas to work for my stepdad, help take care of my Nana, help my mom start up her bakery and dog boutique, generally just spend more time with my family, and buy a house for a heckuva lot less money than I ever could here. (I've seriously given up on the idea of owning real estate in California.) I'd try my hand at developing projects on my own terms from my less-expensive home with my new doxle sitting on one side of me and Mr. Rubble on the other. It was going to be great.

I walked in the day I returned to the office and told my bosses that I would not be working there after September 23 of this year. It felt amazing. It felt better than amazing. I was ready to do the Dr. Benton victory air punch, followed by a rousing ten minutes of continuous Kermit arms. After that, I called my parents and asked if they could help me move back the last weekend of that month. I sent a Facebook message to siblings and extended family to let them know what was about to happen.

And then two days later, I had a near panic attack.

Had I really just committed to moving back home? Suddenly, I began having nightmares about pulling into my mom and stepdad's dirt driveway in the country, getting out of my car and stretching my legs beneath the wide, wide sky and...feeling suffocated. I currently live in an area in which I'm constantly surrounded by people, so it was ironic to think that I was going to feel deprived of oxygen with all of that open space.

(Also ironic? The song "Wide Open Spaces" has always seemed to evoke "moving to the west coast," but, um, there's not a lot of wide open space. At least around here.)

So I talked to the very same bestie and roommate I had just made accept that I was leaving and told her that I was having second thoughts. We decided to move to South Pasadena and have Weasley brought out here (it would be cruel to move Mr. Rubble from the only home he's known at such an advanced age). I'd get a job close to that area so as to eliminate my currently horrible east-west morning commute.

As luck would have it, I actually found a job at KPCC that I thought I was perfectly qualified for and that I'd be amazing at. Given that KPCC is an NPR station, it was kind of a dream job to me. I wrote what I considered to be an amazing, creative cover letter -- probably one of the best things I've ever written -- and I sent it off, convinced I was going to get a call, go in for an interview, and just nail it. Cocky? Maybe, but I had faith. And then the weeks went by and I heard nothing.

I've applied for some other positions -- mainly schools -- and have heard (you guessed it) nothing. And now, with two weeks of gainful employment left, I'm starting to worry. The spot in my left temple and behind my eye is starting to hurt during the day. I'm drinking a lot of Diet Coke again. My stomach is doing that anxious flippy thing. Here's the issue, though...

Actually, 20-second T.O.: Let me just preface what I'm about to talk about with the fact that I realize that I am so incredibly blessed and that there are people out there who would kill for a full-time job. I feel bad for complaining. Honestly. But I feel how I feel and, well, I want to talk about it.

I'm realizing now that I'm going to have to resort to applying for more assistant positions. This is soul-crushing to me. The thought of answering phones for someone again makes me want to cry. Heck, the thought actually made me cry a little while ago. I've been a secretary since I was 16 years old. My first job in high school was as a secretarial assistant at a construction and cabinetry company in my hometown. I earned cash in college by working at the hospital as a unit secretary. After college, I got a sales coordinator job that was actually an assistant to the General Manager and General Sales Manager of a television station, but with the occasional Power Point presentation thrown in. When I got to L.A., I worked at a physician's office and I temped at reception desks all across town. My current job is an assistant position and I've been in it for five years now. I want a "big girl job" making "big girl money." By "big girl money," I mean being able to pay my bills and not worry about how many weeks I'm going to have to save up before I can afford to pay for my plane ticket home for Christmas.

I know, I know. I sound heartless. I'm sorry. Perhaps I needed to see this written out to really see how stupid it sounds.

My point is, though, I have a college degree. I'm paying off the student loans for that college degree. I am 32 years old and I would like to feel like something other than a career assistant.

My ideal job is a 40-hour-a-week job making $50,000 a year. (For those of you playing back home, that's the equivalent of $27,000/year in San Angelo, so it's not exactly a mint I'm looking for.) I don't have to place peoples' phone calls for them. I answer my own phone line. I do work in which I feel like I'm using the afore-mentioned college degree that I'm paying off. Also, the word assistant is nowhere in the title. Coordinator? Fine. Manager? Even better. Associate? That's lovely, too.

I'd actually prefer for it to not be in the entertainment realm. Actually, I am pretty sure that job is nowhere to be found in the entertainment realm, so it's a moot point. No, there are so many weird agreements that many companies have you sign and some of them actually say that whatever you work on during the time of your employment belongs to them. Even if you worked on it when you were at home. I don't want to get in to some pee-ing match over a project I want to work on. So, from here on out, I'm my own entity in the world of entertainment.

In the meantime, though, I am two weeks away from being without a paycheck. I'm thankful to have my vacation time reimbursement coming, but I was hoping to build up a rainy day fund. I guess my rainy day just got here a little quicker than expected. And I can't help feeling that it's my own damn fault.

(Even if I don't regret quitting. Not one teensy weensy bit.)

Title brought to you by Cake. Because they know all. NO PHONE NO PHONE. kthxbye

Please don't judge me...

So, I'm considering going home. Maybe not for good, but it certainly wouldn't be a simple vacation.

• "Going home" has such a negative connotation out here. I feel like saying one is "going home" is akin to admitting defeat or giving up on the dream. It's awkward saying it out loud. Heck, it's awkward just typing the words. I've thought about it before and, in the past, have laughed it off. I'd be lying, though, if I wasn't seriously considering it this time, though.
  

• This place is an expensive place to live. Other than my 401K, I've not been able to build up any real savings and, with the economy being like it is, that bothers me. Every instinct I have is to "hunker down" -- go back to Kansas West Texas, move back in with my parents for a few month (they've all offered), pay off some debt and build up some savings. I've already had two job offers -- can you believe it? Maybe someday I can buy a house, because barring some kind of financial windfall, I will never own property in Los Angeles. I've had to accept that.

• I miss my family. Plain and simple. I love living in California and I love the freedom that comes from being on my own, but I miss my family. My youngest nephew doesn't even know me. He wouldn't let me hold him at Christmas. I'd be lying if I said that didn't sting a little. I miss being able to hug my dad whenever I want to. I miss long chats in the living room with Nancy. I miss cooking and cleaning with my mom. I miss goofing with Craig. I miss being able to go and sit in the recliner at my Nana's and listen to her delightful accent -- a blend of Minnesotan with years of Texan. I miss going to the truck stop to get a Coke with Grandma and Grandpa. I miss being a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, and an aunt. Not that I can't be those things out here, but it's easier to be there for birthday dinners, surgeries, and other events when you can hop in the car and just go. Yes, my career and my dreams are important to me -- but my family is most important.

• Let's be honest. A writer writes. I haven't done a darn thing in forever. Not because I haven't wanted to -- I just can't. I am so writer's blocked it's not even funny. And the writer's block makes me not even want to try. I think I'm stressed about a lot of things and I think that's a big cause of it. I can't help but feel like getting out of a stressful environment will help in that respect. My career is going nowhere at this point. Yesterday, I celebrated my five year anniversary with this company. I'm still in the same position that I was when I first started. I get paid decently for an assistant and the benefits are great (save for not covering orthodontia -- yes, I'm bitter), but I honestly feel like I'm stuck in the mud at this point.
  

• All the boys I've dated (or even nearly dated) here suck. Well, they don't suck, but it's a bit frustrating when you're stood up, canceled on, or not called after the first date. Makes me think there's something wrong with me. Not in the "I'm defective" way, but in the 2 + 2 = 4 way. (Yay, math!)

So, here's the plan. If I do go back to Texas, I do not plan on giving up my entertainment industry ties or dreams. I'd like to get hired on at some companies to do script coverage. (Yay, technology!) I'll keep looking for material to be produced. I'll come to L.A. to pitch (and eat In-n-Out and go to Disneyland...).

Look, this isn't a done deal. I don't know for sure if it's going to happen. Heck, someone from my dream job could call in the next day and change it all. It's what I'm thinking about, though. A lot. And it excites me, but it also makes me really sad. Why can't decisions be easy?

On a happier note, have you seen Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 2), yet? If not, GO. Lovely movie, but take your tissues. The cute wittle babies have all grown up.

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

You guys, I can't even begin to describe how excited I am about the next few weeks. Okay, so I'm a little broke and trying to figure out the whole buying-presents thing, but that cannot detract from the glory that is my mom and aunt visiting this weekend. There will be Wicked-viewage at the Pantages (where I can pretend that I am living in yesteryear) and Disneyland-go-age and just general family-ness.

I can't believe Christmas is coming up so quickly. Things are about to die down at work, though if the strike ends (ohpleaseohplease), all bets are off. People will be pitching like there's no tomorrow. Chaos will reign in Century City. Before I know it, I'll be sitting in the back seat of my parents' Four Runner in Midland, falling asleep as we drive through Grasslands looking at Christmas lights. And I'll be eating at Franco's and getting a massage at The Waterford and eating at Ichiban and and and hanging with my family and my cat.

I'm really excited about the new year, though. I'm fairly hopeful that the strike will be over by then and that maybe -- just maybe -- something will come of the resumes that I submitted. Not that I don't love my job -- I do -- but I just feel like the time is right to make the leap.

We shall see.

(And this post was totally pointless. I need to sleep.)

My brain says "buzz."

Do you ever feel like you have white noise in your brain? That's how I feel lately. I hate it. White noise in my brain and butterflies in my tummy. I just want to relax and feel normal again.

That's not to say that I'm feeling bad. At least not all the time. Things are going pretty well for me of late. Work is going amazingly well. My bosses are fantastic (seriously...I am SO BLESSED) and I feel like I'm making a contribution to the company. It's nice to feel appreciated. If people like the evil gynecologist I used to work for would realize that they would get more productivity out of employees by actually saying nice things to them, we'd have a pretty productive society. Well, that and if we initiated mandatory siesta. Ha!

There's part of me that wants to go to graduate school, but I haven't the foggiest idea what I'd major in. I just miss learning. So, I think I'm going to take a couple of classes this fall -- one to replace a sub-par grade from my undergrad, and one that might be helpful with my current career. (The "current career" one is eligible for tuition reimbursement, too, so yay!)

In other news, I tried out Yahoo! Personals and eHarmony. Eh. I canceled both memberships. They were too nervewracking and just... I met one nice guy, but I'm not really interested in pursuing anything romantic with him. The whole online dating thing just feels so inorganic. And IRL, the guys I like never seem to like me back (or they don't say anything if they do). If this means I'm single for the rest of my life, I guess that's what this means. Heck, I already have a cat living on my back deck -- just start calling me the Crazy Cat Lady!

And I'm trying to be at peace about that. Really.

Sigh. I really am a chick-lit cliche.

Baby, don't you cry, gonna make a pie, all my love for you in the middle of my heart.

I saw the absolute sweetest movie in forever this afternoon. And it only set me back $3! Or, well, Allison -- note to self, pay her back tomorrow night. I can't even describe it. The movie got to me so much that I couldn't figure out what to say about it on the drive home. Just an all out good movie. And I have such a soft spot for Andy Griffith. His character reminds me of my friend Dr. Scott. (Except Dr. Scott is a bit less crotchity.)

It's a travesty that there's no soundtrack released for the movie. I've taken to downloading the most recent album from Quincy Coleman on iTunes. She did a couple of songs in the movie. I'm glad I did -- this album is fantastic. Also, this movie is sadly not showing anywhere around my family, so they won't get to see it. If it's already at the cheapie theatre here, I doubt it'll even hit the first-runs in West Texas. But that means it won't be long until it's on DVD.

(And for anyone trying to figure out what to get me for Christmas -- HEY in 45 minutes it will only be six months away! -- this is a great idea.)

On another note, I may be going to visit my sister in Maryland this weekend. How's that for a last minute trip? She's working on a farm near Hagerstown, so I might just hop on a JetBlue flight to D.C. and spend a couple of days hanging out with her and riding horses and innertubing down the Shenandoah. If I can come up with the moola, that is.

But back to Waitress. I think one of the things that really got me about this movie is that that is the kind of story I want to tell. And it made me seriously think about my pilot idea and how it could really work as that kind of feature. (Minus a couple of storylines, that is.) Or not. We'll see how it goes.

Have a great week, everyone!

Hey there, Cupcake!

Today, I threw two pennies in a fountain. Just because. It was a beautiful day here in Los Angeles and I was on my way to Clementine to pick up my salad. I walked down the sidewalk, my little kitten heels clicking as I went. Rosie Thomas provided a sort of soundtrack on my fifteen minute walk, and I found myself smiling. Sighing and smiling and looking up at the palm trees and blue skies and buildings towering up above. I can't even begin to remember the last time that happened.

I don't know if it's necessarily because I'm happy here in this place in my life, but I couldn't help but appreciate that blue sky and that pretty music and the pretty blue fountain I dropped two pennies in. So I smiled and I sighed and I clutched my big bag closer under my arm as I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard.

At the fountain, a man smiled at me and asked if I made a wish. I kind of did, I guess, but I really didn't know what to wish for. It was more like a wish for "good things." I'm kind of like one of the main characters in the script I'm working on (yay original material!) -- sometimes I just want God to make my decision for me. What would my good things include?

A trip home over my five-day weekend for 4th of July, but that's not happening because tickets are too expensive. A call from the producer I met a month or so ago at the Museum of Television and Radio. My first baking order. Something other than ambivalence from the opposite sex. (That's a post in and of itself!)

I had a really good weekend. My mom and stepdad came to L.A. for their anniversary and for Father's Day. We spent the entire weekend at Disneyland -- even stayed at the resort. I don't know whether it's because I was with my family (where I am traditionally more "myself"), or the fact that I've been on medication on a regular schedule, or the therapy I've been in, but I felt like a normal functioning human being for 95% of the trip. It was really a relief. I love my family so much and it's always so hard to let them go at the airport. If I moved home, it would totally be all about being closer to my family.

And on that note, the script I was just printing at work finished. Three-hole-punch and brass brads, here I come!

Insert witty blog subject line here.

I am up 21 minutes past my bed time. I am a rebel...against myself.

So this afternoon, I up and done it -- I rejoined Weight Watchers. I'm doing the whole online thingy and I'm already whining. How in the hey hey am I supposed to keep it under 19 points in a day? Frickin' Cheerios and skim milk is 4 points in and of itself. I can do this. I just want my size 6's back. And as sick and twisted as it sounds, I miss seeing the outline of my sternum and my clavicles. Oh, and I miss the "glow" that I had, but I suspect that will only return with a regular exercise regimen. Note to self: FIND NEW NON-OUTRAGEOUSLY-EXPENSIVE-AND-SCENEY GYM TO JOIN.

In all seriousness, though, I'm determined to make this work -- to stop the madness, if you will. At least when I was "acting," I looked good all the time. I was obsessive about the gym and what I ate. And I did not have schoolteacher arms. Oh to be that messed up again.

In other news, is it just me or is buying eye cream depressing? Not only is it expensive, but it's to treat LINES AROUND MY EYES. I'm all crinkly anymore. But I do have to say that this All About Eyes Rich stuff is awesome. I think awesome is their secret ingredient. It's what makes it "rich."

Pay no attention to the cranky woman at the computer.

I am a chick lit cliche.

I'm sitting here in my bedroom on a Friday night, contemplating taking a shower and traipsing around in my pretty fluffy sage robe -- a holiday gift from the head of my department at work. I just got home from having a delicious meal at Baby Blues in Venice (CA, that is...not Italy...if only), and now all I can think about is how I can feel my thighs inflating. It's not a happy feeling. I want to go for a walk, but with a windchill, it's only 40-some-odd degrees outside. I could go to the gym, but my gym is in West Hollywood and I am in Silver Lake and mrah mrah mrah yes I would like some cheese with my whine. (And so the thigh-expansion continues...)

But anyway, I'm reading a lot of chick lit these days. I got it in my head that 2007 was going to be my most literate year ever. I was going to read a whole lotta books, and I was going to start with the classics. I managed to find a list of the "50 Greatest Novels of All Time," compiled by The New York Times. And what's classier than The New York Times? Come on! At the top was Ulysses by James Joyce. I spent $17 on it at the Borders in Century City. After my first bus-and-book session, my brain hurt. Reading is supposed to be FUNdamental -- or at least that's what all those cheesy-yet-endearing posters in my school libraries always said. Headaches? Not fun.

So chick lit it is. I adored Emily Giffin's Something Borrowed and Something Blue. I just finished reading -- and loving -- a script based on a book called Milkrun. I'm now reading Pamela Ribon's Why Moms Are Weird. Oddly enough, even though I loved the movie, I'm not a huge fan of The Devil Wears Prada. The main character really irritated me in the first chapter with all of her whining. I just kept thinking that the girl should just put on her big girl panties and deal with it. (And I say this as someone who spent her first nine months in L.A. working for Satan-with-a-Speculum.)

But anyway, I had a point. Maybe the reason I'm liking these books is because I see something I can relate to. I've never really felt like your "typical" 27-year-old, but now I do. I finally have friends I can call to have dinner or catch a movie with. I have a fantastic assistant job at a fantastic television network. I spend way too much time analyzing the most minute details to determine if the guy I like actually likes me back. I can watch Pride and Prejudice infinite times in a loop and still get all weepy at the end. And one of my favorite things in the whole world is spending time with my best friend. That, and eating Ben and Jerry's...

I am a cliche. And as much as the Silver Lake girl in me wants to rebel, I am a-okay with that.