I'm mooooooooving

The other day I went to McCambridge park and I took my notebook and some reading material. I read some of Slaughterhouse Five, The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson (for a creative and professional reason, trust me), and then I pulled out my black-cover-red-star notebook that I take with me everywhere in hopes to maintain an appearance of introspectiveness. There's somewhat of a poetic irony in the fact that I go through these lengths to look pensively self-reflective only because I want to appear that way in front of others. Regardless, none of this matters because I feel like I'm rarely actually writing in that book anyway. It's an awesome book, though.

So I pulled out the "LOOK! I'm a writer!!!" book and before I knew it, I had written four full pages. I read it back and it's actually pretty funny. I want to post it in here, but I've never gotten around to it. I was going to do it right now, but it turns out that I already took that book over to the new apartment. I'm not quite sure why I've already started the "process" of moving into the new place. Especially since the "process" is putting all thirteen of my personal effects into the Focus and driving eight miles west. Whatever the reason-

Okay, fuck that. I have a feeling people would rather I talk about the new apartment, as opposed to what I wrote in my journal that I left at said apartment.

It's in Studio City. It's nice. It's a three bedroom with a balcony. The front door is a sliding glass door, but you learn to love it. I just realized we have no fridge, but we each pay $600 a month to live in Studio City so I'm not about to complain if I have to pay for a third of a miniature dorm fridge. We have a pool. It's clean looking. The lounge chairs are decidedly less pristine.

Now that the apartment situation is taken care of (well, HAVING an apartment is taking care of. Filling it with a bed, furniture, fridge, microwave, television, and everything else that apartments need is another issue entirely), I can focus on other things. Namely, job hunting. Karen has said many times she is going to help me get a job. She said last week that she's been putting her feelers out to see what the word on the street is. That's a metaphor, just so you know. She doesn't have real feelers. Well...do hand count? "I'm putting my hands out to find you a job." See, that just doesn't conjur the same vivid imagery. Either way, she said at the end of the month we're gonna sit down and have a serious talk about what it is I want to do and she's going to start really getting serious about finding me employment. So, anyone who always asls me, "Your boss says she's going to find you a job, but is she really?" It looks like she's the real deal.

I love improv class. I'm telling you right now, if I get a job that gets in the way of taking the next course at Groundlings, I'm seriously going to have to reconsider the offer. I look forward to every Saturday just like we used to look forward to weekends in middle school. I say middle school because by the time we hit high school, weekends don't matter because we'll just skip if we don't feel like going. I could go on and on about how much I love class and the stuff we do, but I don't think it makes for a good read. Also, if I say "I want to finish taking all the classes, be part of one of their stage shows, get an agent and become an actor/writer!" I'll feel incredibly stupid five years from now when I'm assistant manager at California Pizza Kitchen and decide to go back and read some of my old entries. I will say this, though. There's an old guy in my class who just informed me that every week he writes down the funny things I say in his notebook. I find that...odd. I'm also scared to mention this incident because it's quite possible that he has googled me and reads this blog.