I’m one of those people who will never be happy unless their life means something. “Ludicrous,” you say to yourself, “Everyone wants their life to mean something.” That’s not quite the case. On a daily basis I interact with strangers, friends and co-workers who are so vividly content in their everyday encounters: Work is boring, but that’s normal. Not too much on TV, but Shark Week has been awesome. Spouse is running a little late so I’ll keep it warm in the oven. I want so much for that to be what I’m happy to have occur. Ludicrous, for me to mentally scold myself when I waste a day in which others wouldn’t consider a waste. I watch movies and instead of being entertained I’m consumed by the actors portrayal. I flip through the screenplay in my head as the characters continue on my LCD screen:   INT. DON’S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SPRING 1946)      Don Corleone blinks.  One feels that just for a      second he loses all physical strength; he clasps his      hands in front of him on the top of the desk and                                                 (CONTINUED) I think about what the writers went through, their creative process, the torture of giving birth to a brain wave only for it to be torn apart. I imagine the best boy grip getting bored with the seventh reshoot of the scene. I laugh about the interns standing in the background, fingers white gripping their clipboard as they play in their heads what they’ll do differently when they’re the director one day. Then the movie ends. I am no more the wiser on how it began. I am only full of envy for every name that scrolls through the closing credits, I even take notice of Craft Services employees thanked for fueling the crew. Goddammit, why can I not just enjoy the fucking film? Can I not be wrapped up in the suspense? Why do I sit and wish to be the composer, the producer, the writer, the actor, the director…wish for the talent, or at least the drive to fuel what little talent can be cultivated. My innocence as a consumer of film has been lost. I fidget on my couch when actors my age take the screen, comparing the fact that I’m drowning in a St. Patrick’s Day t-shirt from Savannah, sitting in a pair of boy shorts at 6 PM on a weekday and this age clone of me is in a film. Then, I proceed to suffer. I’d say this is one of the worst parts in life. Growing up, college had always been the next step in creating a fate I’d be willing to accept. Then college came and went, and I was blessed to be chosen to travel the country for a year in the iconic Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Looked at as the elite, I was spoiled for twelve months of comfort—not in the sense of luxury, but in the sense of security. One year later, I say goodbye to one of the best things to ever happen to me and I move home to Sarasota to get my head on straight and spend time with my family before a major move to God knows where because God knows who is going to hire me for my skill set of God knows what. It’s been echoed to me over and over again: IT’S ABOUT WHO YOU KNOW. CONNECTIONS. PEOPLE. Resumes don’t get you jobs. Relatives get you jobs. Going from representing a multi-billion dollar brand to trying to figure out what can motivate you to get out of bed before 1 PM and what to record via TiVo is a strange and almost revolting feeling. I want to be important. I want to matter. And sometimes, I think I’d trade in those feelings for innocence and obliviousness again. I’m not depressed. I’m lost.

I’m one of those people who will never be happy unless their life means something. “Ludicrous,” you say to yourself, “Everyone wants their life to mean something.”

That’s not quite the case. On a daily basis I interact with strangers, friends and co-workers who are so vividly content in their everyday encounters: Work is boring, but that’s normal. Not too much on TV, but Shark Week has been awesome. Spouse is running a little late so I’ll keep it warm in the oven.

I want so much for that to be what I’m happy to have occur. Ludicrous, for me to mentally scold myself when I waste a day in which others wouldn’t consider a waste. I watch movies and instead of being entertained I’m consumed by the actors portrayal. I flip through the screenplay in my head as the characters continue on my LCD screen:

  INT. DON’S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SPRING 1946)

     Don Corleone blinks.  One feels that just for a
     second he loses all physical strength; he clasps his
     hands in front of him on the top of the desk and 
                                               (CONTINUED)

I think about what the writers went through, their creative process, the torture of giving birth to a brain wave only for it to be torn apart. I imagine the best boy grip getting bored with the seventh reshoot of the scene. I laugh about the interns standing in the background, fingers white gripping their clipboard as they play in their heads what they’ll do differently when they’re the director one day.

Then the movie ends. I am no more the wiser on how it began. I am only full of envy for every name that scrolls through the closing credits, I even take notice of Craft Services employees thanked for fueling the crew.

Goddammit, why can I not just enjoy the fucking film? Can I not be wrapped up in the suspense? Why do I sit and wish to be the composer, the producer, the writer, the actor, the director…wish for the talent, or at least the drive to fuel what little talent can be cultivated.

My innocence as a consumer of film has been lost. I fidget on my couch when actors my age take the screen, comparing the fact that I’m drowning in a St. Patrick’s Day t-shirt from Savannah, sitting in a pair of boy shorts at 6 PM on a weekday and this age clone of me is in a film. Then, I proceed to suffer.

I’d say this is one of the worst parts in life. Growing up, college had always been the next step in creating a fate I’d be willing to accept. Then college came and went, and I was blessed to be chosen to travel the country for a year in the iconic Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Looked at as the elite, I was spoiled for twelve months of comfort—not in the sense of luxury, but in the sense of security. One year later, I say goodbye to one of the best things to ever happen to me and I move home to Sarasota to get my head on straight and spend time with my family before a major move to God knows where because God knows who is going to hire me for my skill set of God knows what. It’s been echoed to me over and over again: IT’S ABOUT WHO YOU KNOW. CONNECTIONS. PEOPLE. Resumes don’t get you jobs. Relatives get you jobs.

Going from representing a multi-billion dollar brand to trying to figure out what can motivate you to get out of bed before 1 PM and what to record via TiVo is a strange and almost revolting feeling. I want to be important. I want to matter. And sometimes, I think I’d trade in those feelings for innocence and obliviousness again.

I’m not depressed. I’m lost.


I’ve been asked to teach improvisation. Really, it’s unbelievable. It’s as if I leave Gainesville, forget about improvisation, get back, and I’m a better at performing. Maybe I was a pansy about fellow TSF members judging me or I never took my “cool hat” off, but I’m a different improviser. I performed with Lazy Fairy to a sold out show of over 100 and it went superbly. After that, it was fate, and I’ve been asked to teach a beginners’ improv class. But…I’m getting paid to teach. PAID. Me, paid to teach improvisation. In the famous words of Laura Moller, “Shut up. Shut up!” The offer is too lucrative performing-wise, and financially to pass up. So that mid-August date of moving just got pushed back to mid-September. No, don’t you look at me like that. Don’t you roll your eyes. I’m moving to Los Angeles, you hear me? I AM! But now I’ll have a little more in my nest egg and something else to add to my resume. It’s logical and for me, that’s something. I bought a new car to take with me to Los Angeles. Well, it’s not brand new, but it’s new to me. It’s an Acura TL in Midnight Hawk Black (how that’s different from black, I’m not sure). But it’s beautiful and I love it and I can park it in a spot that my old Pathfinder would not be able to fit in. So yes, this was a pro-LA move. I’m thinking of sitting on that famous LA highway and gas just evaporating from the tank. I’m thinking of those small spots I’ll learn to parallel park in just inches from the vehicle in front of me off of Sunset Blvd. So don’t you give me that “you’re not going to move to LA,” look. I WILL move.

I’ve been asked to teach improvisation. Really, it’s unbelievable. It’s as if I leave Gainesville, forget about improvisation, get back, and I’m a better at performing. Maybe I was a pansy about fellow TSF members judging me or I never took my “cool hat” off, but I’m a different improviser. I performed with Lazy Fairy to a sold out show of over 100 and it went superbly. After that, it was fate, and I’ve been asked to teach a beginners’ improv class. But…I’m getting paid to teach. PAID. Me, paid to teach improvisation. In the famous words of Laura Moller, “Shut up. Shut up!” The offer is too lucrative performing-wise, and financially to pass up. So that mid-August date of moving just got pushed back to mid-September. No, don’t you look at me like that. Don’t you roll your eyes. I’m moving to Los Angeles, you hear me? I AM! But now I’ll have a little more in my nest egg and something else to add to my resume. It’s logical and for me, that’s something.

I bought a new car to take with me to Los Angeles. Well, it’s not brand new, but it’s new to me. It’s an Acura TL in Midnight Hawk Black (how that’s different from black, I’m not sure). But it’s beautiful and I love it and I can park it in a spot that my old Pathfinder would not be able to fit in. So yes, this was a pro-LA move. I’m thinking of sitting on that famous LA highway and gas just evaporating from the tank. I’m thinking of those small spots I’ll learn to parallel park in just inches from the vehicle in front of me off of Sunset Blvd. So don’t you give me that “you’re not going to move to LA,” look. I WILL move.


I’m in trouble. The date in my head to move to Los Angeles was mid-August. Except…I’m really enjoying being with my family. Except…I’ve become a part of a very successful improv troupe. Except…I may have a part in an independent film being shot in the area….. I’m in trouble. This film, a horror film loosely titled ‘The Shifters,’ is auditioning lead actors for a movie they plan on circulating at festivals to be picked up for distribution. I bet it’d be a lot easier moving to Los Angeles with another credit on my resume. The film sets up production and casting in September and begins shooting in October. Which means….I wouldn’t be moving to Los Angeses until November. Which means…I’m holding back because I really am frightened to move all together. Failing in Los Angeles means it’s over. That’s how I feel and I can’t help it. Los Angeles, City of Angels, City of Dreams, City of ‘Fuck You,’ purges itself of the nobody’s who head back to Traverse City, Michigan, Clarksville, Tenneessee, Sarasota, Florida, ashamed to tell their friends and families and ultimately repeat the same monologue about how “it just wasn’t for me.” If I don’t move I won’t fail. I’ll continue with the success I’ve been having in this Gulf Coast area. I’ve been asked to teach a beginning improv class. I probably couldn’t even get a job at Starbucks in Los Angeles. I want to make it so badly that I’m holding myself back. Being cast in a horror film would be all too appropriate right now.

I’m in trouble. The date in my head to move to Los Angeles was mid-August. Except…I’m really enjoying being with my family. Except…I’ve become a part of a very successful improv troupe. Except…I may have a part in an independent film being shot in the area…..

I’m in trouble. This film, a horror film loosely titled ‘The Shifters,’ is auditioning lead actors for a movie they plan on circulating at festivals to be picked up for distribution. I bet it’d be a lot easier moving to Los Angeles with another credit on my resume. The film sets up production and casting in September and begins shooting in October. Which means….I wouldn’t be moving to Los Angeses until November. Which means…I’m holding back because I really am frightened to move all together. Failing in Los Angeles means it’s over. That’s how I feel and I can’t help it. Los Angeles, City of Angels, City of Dreams, City of ‘Fuck You,’ purges itself of the nobody’s who head back to Traverse City, Michigan, Clarksville, Tenneessee, Sarasota, Florida, ashamed to tell their friends and families and ultimately repeat the same monologue about how “it just wasn’t for me.”

If I don’t move I won’t fail. I’ll continue with the success I’ve been having in this Gulf Coast area. I’ve been asked to teach a beginning improv class. I probably couldn’t even get a job at Starbucks in Los Angeles. I want to make it so badly that I’m holding myself back.

Being cast in a horror film would be all too appropriate right now.


People are intrigued by fame, power and wealth.
Hollywood is the only place where you get all three together.

An awkwardly tall woman will be moving to Los Angeles from Sarasota, Florida. An awkwardly tall woman with no grace and a mouth that sounds like it once belonged to a Brooklyn cop. An awkwardly tall woman with no clear ethnicity (she’s Spanish, she’s Egyptian, she’s South American). This awkwardly tall woman has a passion for film, television, and improvisation. This awkwardly tall woman must therefore move to the city that has opportunities for each. Except, this awkwardly tall woman still feels like an awkwardly tall girl. An awkwardly tall, scared girl. Living life on the East Coast is safe for her. She understands when her television will be playing her favorite shows. She understands that the further North you go, the meaner the people will be. She doesn’t see any perks with the Pacific timezone. She doesn’t understand Los Angeles. Where surfers live. Where faces synonymous with plastic surgery drive Porches. Where girls coincidentally all have blonde hair and tan skin. Where jobs come by connections or sexual favors. Where stars mingle with stalkers. Where smog looms around million dollar homes. Where her family won’t be. This woman, Torey, will be packing up everything that has value to her and drive her vehicle full to the brim through Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, (detour to Nevada for Las Vegas), and finally Los Angeles, California. With a ready resume and absolutely no job prospects, housing, or friends with connections, she’ll see if she has what it takes to fulfill her passion; a career in the entertainment business. It feels like a slow journey of sinking to the bottom of the water. Lungs filling up with liquid, yet there’s really no where else for this awkwardly tall Torey to be. Just prey for LA.

An awkwardly tall woman will be moving to Los Angeles from Sarasota, Florida. An awkwardly tall woman with no grace and a mouth that sounds like it once belonged to a Brooklyn cop. An awkwardly tall woman with no clear ethnicity (she’s Spanish, she’s Egyptian, she’s South American). This awkwardly tall woman has a passion for film, television, and improvisation. This awkwardly tall woman must therefore move to the city that has opportunities for each.

Except, this awkwardly tall woman still feels like an awkwardly tall girl. An awkwardly tall, scared girl.

Living life on the East Coast is safe for her. She understands when her television will be playing her favorite shows. She understands that the further North you go, the meaner the people will be. She doesn’t see any perks with the Pacific timezone. She doesn’t understand Los Angeles. Where surfers live. Where faces synonymous with plastic surgery drive Porches. Where girls coincidentally all have blonde hair and tan skin. Where jobs come by connections or sexual favors. Where stars mingle with stalkers. Where smog looms around million dollar homes. Where her family won’t be.

This woman, Torey, will be packing up everything that has value to her and drive her vehicle full to the brim through Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, (detour to Nevada for Las Vegas), and finally Los Angeles, California.

With a ready resume and absolutely no job prospects, housing, or friends with connections, she’ll see if she has what it takes to fulfill her passion; a career in the entertainment business.

It feels like a slow journey of sinking to the bottom of the water. Lungs filling up with liquid, yet there’s really no where else for this awkwardly tall Torey to be.

Just prey for LA.


Powered by Tumblr. Theme by hayleyrocktrix