Cut to Sunday evening. Interior. A blond woman sits alone by a dark window in a bright yellow kitchen at a laptop. She makes a salad. She starts to type.
So, yeah, I sorta had an embarassing breakdown at my breakfast nook Sunday night. It was pathetic. But for about ½ hour, I was convinced that a) I’d never manage to complete a 5 paged double-spaced paper; b) I was the same procrastinating mess I’ve always been since I could remember, or at least, since pagers were en vogue; and c) under the perfect storm of circumstances, I could’ve hacked off my right f-ing hand too, Aron Ralston!!
Before I fell too far into the vortex, I called my beau, he graciously talked me down from the brink, and suddenly I was singing, “I know that everything, know that everything, know that everything….everything’s gonna be fine.” I started typing, and somehow, started explaining the theory of pluralism as I vaguely understood it.
I had a major moment of realization during this process, something akin to what I like to imagine the rose-less women on the Bachelor must feel like when watching themselves on TV 6 months after it’s all said and done. That realization being, despite what we'd like to believe about ourselves, we're all a little nuts. Sometimes the crazy just hits and there's just not much you can do about it but let it run its course. I can't judge these women, because they are me.
At least I keep my "crazy" confined to my Los Feliz kitchen (and occasionally my boyfriend's closet- don't ask). On a positive note, our professor mentioned that 5 page paper would probably be the toughest assignment of our whole program. Not as tough as competing for a vapid blond man with a trust fund, but tough nonetheless.