Adventures in Los Angeles 4.? – Typhoid Mary

December 17, 2008

So I'm sick as shit.  I caught something awful, and I've spent the last two days in bed, moaning, and hoping for the ceiling above me to collapse and kill me.

Today I'm going to find out if I can get the mentor I want.  He keeps checking to see if it happened yet or not – and he gave me his home number.  Either he wants to sleep with me (highly unlikely, especially since I'm a pallid, crappy mess over here) or he's really into my work.

Actually – he said something to me the other day that I'm still glowing over.  He said before that my generation seemed to be all about irony (which is totally fucking true).  That all of the writers hide behind it – that we don't give a shit… that it's all about cleverness and wit.  Never any feeling.

Yesterday he told me that my writing proved him wrong.  "You're an existentialist," he said, "one of the last of your generation."

And then he said that my essay was one of the best he's read in years.

I so love this dude.

I just fucking hope that I get to work with him.

I'm off now to go break up with my assigned mentor.

Peace out, homeslice.

PS: <cough>


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