"Your cologne smells like you took a bunch of flowers and rammed them up my nose with chopsticks."

Do you want to disguise your true identity, infiltrate top-secret government buildings, and disable nuclear missiles that have already been launched? There's an app for that.

"The problem with looking young is that you either have to date a pedophile, or be one."

A couple of years ago, after watching Revenge of the Fallen, I swore that I would never again subject myself to the torture of viewing metal-on-metal violent porn directed by Michael Bay. However, since I'm only in Seattle once a year, I will occasionally disregard my principles in order to do something at my family's bidding, which in this case, was sitting through a movie rental that happened to be the third installment of the Transformers trilogy.

While my complaints against the movie are many - corny dialogue, egregious treatment of women, suspension of not just plain old disbelief but all-out incredulity, and the literal deus ex machina towards the end come to mind - my biggest gripe against the film is that it NEVER ENDS.

Does Michael Bay actually think that Dark of the Moon is some sort of cinematic masterpiece? What a self-indulgent and hopelessly oblivious prickhole. According to the DVD, the movie's runtime is 154 minutes - about 150 minutes too long in my opinion, and a modest estimate considering it felt more like six hours. So please, moviemakers, do us all a favor and try to be a little more self-aware. If you're going to produce an enormous, disgusting, hot, stinking piece of crap in order to lure in the masses and make a quick buck, then make it a quick movie. Don't pretend that it's art and don't try to fool anyone into thinking that it will get better, because it won't. You still get to charge the same price for theater tickets and rentals, and I'll be less mad at my family for making me watch it. Everyone wins!

And family, please, I beg of you. I'll do whatever you want. I will wear the hideous holiday sweater. I will stay in on the weekend and play card games with the family. I will attend church and not ask the pastor questions he won't be able to answer. I will visit relatives I don't like that I never hear from anyway but am obliged to sit through dinner with. I will partake of that dish that looks like vomit. I will hold the newborn baby from that random acquaintance and pretend it is cute and try really hard not to drop it. I will go shopping and buy things you don't need so that on Christmas Day I can wrap them up and give them to you and get in return things I don't need. But I will not, will not, WILL NOT watch another freaking Transformers movie!

"It's okay. No Missus to blatantly lie to this Christmas!"

I'm supposed to be on vacation but I'm actually working. That's right; it's 3 in the morning and I'm still up, trying to cram what should have been two weeks worth of careful research and thoughtful writing into one night of hasty Googling and unedited typing to submit to a very (understandably) impatient magazine editor, who not coincidentally, happens to be a former English professor of mine at UCI.

I was so sure when I graduated that those college all-nighters were behind me, once and for all. Clearly, I knew very little about what it really means to be a writer. When Hank Moody said, "Don't be a writer; it's like having homework every day for the rest of your life," he wasn't kidding.

Oh well. I'm pretty sure I'll pull it off. It worked when I was taking English from the very same guy, and he asked me to do this article for his magazine, so he must like my last-minute writing.

"Life is just a bunch of and-then-whats."

LAX to SFO to SEA, write about the Occupy Movement on my laptop while supposedly spending Christmas with the family, fly back to LAX just in time to drive off to Vegas and ring in the New Year with friends, then back to the City of Angels again, where at some point I will have to resume working in an office and paying rent like a normal person. It's going to be a very postmodern holiday season.

"The only problem with a 20-year-old body is that it comes with a 20-year-old brain."

I've been back in L.A. for a few days now, but have been a little too preoccupied to write anything new. First of all, I have been trying for months to secure a freelance gig that may or may not pay, and may or may not get me published, in a magazine that may or may not have a circulation of almost 500 people, and this past week was the first where I was more than 50% convinced that something might come out of all the emails between the editor and myself. This is primarily because he is being a bit more responsive than normal and seems to need me on the job. Second, I'm a little behind schedule at the gig that does pay. Third, I lost my iPhone, and getting back on the communication grid has been more or less of an ordeal.

But now I'm here, sitting at my computer (in my underwear, of course), and trying to kill time while I build a custom .ipsw file for my "new" iPhone 3GS, which is really a downgrade from the 4 that I previously had but lost. Unlike other humans who are here because of Darwinian natural selection, I did not have any anti-theft devices in place on my phone. Passcode lock? Had it, got annoyed every time I needed to use the navigation system while driving. Find My iPhone? I wasn't even aware of the app's existence until the night I lost my phone, at which point it was too late anyway. Besides, it only runs on iOS 5 and I was still on Firmware 4.1. And trust me, I called and texted my number a million times, making pathetic appeals to the new owner's nonexistent conscience. I suppose giving up your conscience for a $700 phone is a fair trade.

I hate people. Especially poor people. Especially poor people with no credit that can't get an iPhone of their own.

But Reeny, you might say, you're poor (all writers are), and you owe Uncle Sam a lot of money for putting you through college, so your credit's probably not fantastic at the moment...

Shut it.

***

I wrote all of the above two days ago, left it in draft form, and forgot to publish it. Basically, my phone had finished installing the firmware and I got distracted with setting it up. Oh well. Read on for my two-day update.

***

Here's a bit of advice for smartphone users: never downgrade to an older model. After a year of looking at pictures and applications on an iPhone 4, going back to a 3GS is like taking out my contacts and viewing the world through a bubble-wrap lens.

That is all.

"Sex and cannibalism. You know, the usual."

Maybe the reason I've been so lax about writing lately is because I've been doing the opposite of writing: I have been catching up on my reading. I am determined to finish at least one of the dozen or so books on my shelf that have bookmarks in them. Some of those titles I left off over a year ago, which means that when I finally pick them up again, I'll be completely lost and will have to start fresh from the beginning.

In case anyone is curious, here's a partial list of what I'm currently reading, my definition of "current" being a rather loose one. (It's only a partial list because I have to go by memory, since I'm not home.)

1984
Wind, Sand, and Stars
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Can't Buy Me Love
Madame Bovary
The God Delusion
No-No Boy
A Tale of Two Cities
Anna, Ann, Annie

I am approximately halfway through all of them. For some reason, I always follow the same pattern with new books. I'll read feverishly, get to the middle, put down the book, pick up another, do the same thing with that book, pick up another, and so forth. My literary ADD does take a break when something major happens, like moving to a new city, at which point all the books go into a cardboard box, are left sitting there for several weeks, and are pretty much forgotten until the urge to read again jolts me from my illiteracy four to fourteen months later. Not enough time to have lost interest in a written work, but just enough to have forgotten all the pertinent details, like character names and everything that's happened. Like most people, I had a decent excuse for not reading in the first month after my relocation. Problem is, I've been in L.A. for six.

Why am I not reading at the moment, you ask. Because I'm out of town, silly. Why didn't I bring a book along with me? I don't know. Shut up.

"He's worse! At least Henry beheaded his women after he was done with them."

It's been awhile since I updated this. I blame the usual suspects: work, friends, writer's block, laziness. I keep telling myself I'll write the next day, and then the next day, and then the next... before you know it, two weeks go by and you forget that you're supposed to be a writer.

Last night I drove up to the Bay Area to spend Thanksgiving Week with my friends. My boss is awesome for letting me have the entire week off, and the fact that I'm still getting email from work makes the whole thing only slightly less awesome. This Thursday is the big turkey affair of course, but the rest of my stay here is open-ended.

So what am I doing with my vacation time? Well, since everyone else is still working, I'm just hanging out by myself at my friend's place. Sleeping in. Surfing the web. Playing games on my iPhone. Writing in this blog. Basically the exact same thing I do in L.A. when I have downtime. Except for the writing part.

"I'm going to have to start wearing real pants then I guess... this makes me sad."

Dear friends and family who have occasionally been frustrated due to unsuccessful attempts to call or text me,

Sorry if I've offended anyone by not getting back to them right away. In case there might be any hurt feelings, misunderstandings, or actual concern for my well-being, here's a breakdown of how I handle my phone and the various reasons as to why you might not get a response from me.

Silent mode: when I'm working, sleeping, watching a movie (whether at the theater or at home), interviewing for a job, or simply not in the mood to talk to anyone.

Airplane mode: when I'm on an airplane, syncing my phone, jailbreaking my phone, playing a game on my phone, or simply not in the mood to talk to anyone.

Ignore the call/text: when I am in the shower, out of the country, don't recognize the number, don't like the caller, or simply not in the mood to talk to anyone.

Off: when my battery dies, I'm rebooting because of a bad jailbreak, or I turned the phone off manually because I was simply not in the mood to talk to anyone.

Not in service: when I'm driving up the 5 to San Francisco, taking the subway, in a dead spot, or didn't pay my bill on time because I was simply not in the mood to talk to anyone.

Don't take it personally.

"I could've bribed him with animal fat."

Curiosity won't always kill you. Sometimes it'll just get you into lots of trouble.

"You're the only real person I can talk to. Everyone else in my phone book is a cyborg."

Does anyone remember that purity test from TheSpark.com? The one that pulled you in with questions like, "Have you ever held hands?" and "Have you ever been inside a bar or a pub?"

Of course you do. You probably thought that you would easily get a low purity score, especially with questions like that. And so you started in, answering "yes" to everything, eager to finish so you could show off to all your friends what a badass you truly were. Until you got to about the 3rd or 4th page.

I remember it like it was yesterday. That test opened up my eyes to possibilities I never even knew existed. I kept thinking, who comes up with this stuff? People actually do this? And because of that test, I became intrigued but at the same time terrified of the world out there. It had to be a bad, bad place if there were people who really did engage in this sort of behavior (or were at least twisted enough to think of it in the first place).

Out of nostalgia I decided to search for that purity test and retake it. It took a bit of effort since TheSpark.com is no longer available - it's all about SparkNotes now - but I finally found it. (Little bit of Internet history for you: OkCupid, the site that currently hosts the test I am talking about, was created by the founders of TheSpark.)

Well, it's been at least a decade since I first measured my purity, and let me just say that a lot can happen in 10 years. Questions that once disturbed me now get a sheepish grin and a "yes" response. Looking back, I realize that some of those questions were actually pretty lame. ("Do you own any MP3s?" Really?) My guess is that they were just put in there so virgins could have something to answer "yes" to.

It's much harder to shock me as an adult, but TheSpark's purity test was written by college-age guys whose target audience was college-age people. I can see how at the time, many of those questions would be completely appalling, and if you had done any of those things then you were very impure indeed. I guess the lesson here is that graduation will do wonders for your worldview.

Or maybe the real lesson is that everyone should stay in school. I mean literally stay in school - as in, don't graduate - and you will remain clean. You do want to get into heaven, right?

Take the test and find out.

"I think Christian men are just waiting for you to show up and knock them off that Jesus wagon."

Bring on Movember! It's time to separate the boys from the men, the porn stars from the pedophiles, the guys that can't grow facial hair from the ones that can...

Oh yeah, and all that men's health awareness stuff is probably important too.

"What's going on. Remember jail?"

Happy Halloween... from my desk at work! These comma splices are driving me crazy. Script writers don't know proper grammar from their left shoe.

One thing that did make my day though, is that earlier today I came up with a brilliant idea for a research project which should give me plenty of material for my novel/screenplay/epic poem. I can't say what it is here, because this blog is public and my plan won't work if too many people know about it. (Just humor my fantasy that I have a readership of more than three.) I did tell a couple of friends my idea though, and was promptly rewarded with the title of Evil Genius.

That's right. Evil Genius on Halloween. Stay tuned.

"When economists wake up in the middle of the night, they think about inflation."

Writing this blog has been a good thing for me. Not only does it give me something to do while I suffer through this ridiculous insomnia, but I can express myself openly without worrying that people might find me annoying.

You know those friends on Facebook that update their status twelve times a day? The ones that think their every passing thought is a gem worth sharing with the world? The gourmet food photographers? The "woe is me for I have to work on a Tuesday" whiners? The people that check in all the freaking time? They bug the crap out of me. I don't want to be one of them.

So I censor my activity on Facebook. Every time I feel like updating my status or sharing a link, I ask myself whether anyone apart from me would find it interesting. If the answer is no, I don't post.

The great thing about this blog is that I no longer have to ask myself these questions. I can blab about whatever I feel like because my blabber doesn't get pushed into people's News Feeds, clogging up their stream with junk that they don't find interesting. Why would anyone want to know that I had a PB&J sandwich for dinner anyway?

And if someone actually does care about what I have to say, I can just send them here. Then if they find me annoying it will be their fault (for being a little too curious) and not mine (for shoving the minutiae of my everyday life down their throat).

I should have done this years ago when I was younger and did way more interesting stuff. But I wasn't living in L.A. at the time... and I was probably too busy doing interesting stuff to sit down and write about it...

Maybe that's what the problem is with Facebook. The people that I most want to hear from are too busy living their lives to share what's going on with their friends. But the people that have nothing worth sharing are the ones who share the most, because they aren't doing anything interesting to take up all their time! No wonder their posts suck.

My food delivery just arrived. Yup, at 4:37 in the morning. I could take a picture of the meal I'm about to enjoy and post it on my blog, since I know it won't bother anyone...

... but I won't.

"You reek of Try-Too-Hard, and your baby is ugly."

Driving into, out of, and through Los Angeles is an infuriating experience. Traffic is bad. Parking is bad. Accidents abound. Traffic lights are unreliable. I once witnessed an accident that literally took out a traffic light. There is always construction work going on somewhere. Even in the middle of the night the freeways are unpredictable. And on the one day a year that it rains in this town, the streets are completely flooded because L.A. city officials didn't see the point in spending tax money on a drainage system.

What's even stranger is that after hours of crawling by at speeds that would make a turtle impatient, you finally arrive at your destination, only to discover that no one is there.

That's the thing about L.A. that really gets me. Where is everyone going? I live downtown and the place is totally dead. I don't know of any other city whose inhabitants subject themselves to endless road torture in order to get somewhere and hang out with nobody. Sometimes I feel like I'm in the Negaverse.

"Oh Jesus... I've got to judge the Miss Gay Universe thing in Yokohama this week. Balls. I forgot about that."

One of my favorite things about the company where I work is that I'm pretty much left to my own devices. As long as I complete my projects by their due dates, no one really cares what time I come in or how much time I take off. Which is great, since it frees me up to do other things, like write. Or take pictures. Or sleep.

I have never felt more like a true artist. I've also never been hungrier.

Maybe I should stop messing around online and go have dinner.

"You're a naughty old lady!"

Strange thing happened while I was driving earlier. I looked ahead and suddenly, three traffic lights, all in a row, went out at the same time. Naturally, I wanted to believe that some highly skilled bank robbers were planning a heist, and needed to take out the power grid of several blocks in order to disable a top-notch security system. Naturally.

The only problem was that I wasn't driving through the nicest part of L.A. at the time. A crowbar and a menacing glare would have been sufficient to commit a burglary in that neighborhood. So the power outage was probably just another side effect of this city's fantastic infrastructure. No biggie. Why would anyone need electricity after stealing a TV anyway?

"When I'm old, I'm gonna tell my grandchildren about that amazing nap I took in London."

One of the more interesting aspects of living in L.A. is its proximity to the entertainment industry. It's not unusual to walk around town and see movies being filmed. Recently I had to sneak into my own apartment because the Dark Knight Rising crew had blocked off nearby streets and evacuated my building per safety regulations.

Did you catch that? I was too stealthy even for Batman.

Anyway, entertainment industry. I edit subtitles for a living, which is nowhere near as exciting as trying to outwit a highly intelligent billionaire vigilante in a cape. But hey, it pays the bills, and I get to do what I do best: watch videos, read IMDb for "research" and check other people's spelling. Well, there's more to it than that but those are pretty much the highlights.

I listen with envy when a co-worker starts cracking up because they were assigned to work on something awesome, like Californication.

"You're timid, and you lack focus." Not the context in which I'd ever expect to hear those words.

In the meantime I'm watching some spoiled, barely-old-enough-to-drink socialite complain about how hard her life is now that she's engaged to a prince. Please.

I'm hoping that at some point in my career as a subtitle editor, I will get to work on a project for Californication. Who wouldn't enjoy getting paid to watch David Duchovny stick his foot in his mouth by saying something that was actually incredibly witty?

But my real aspiration is to one day write something that good. I'm not jealous because I'm stuck with Gossip Girl while my co-worker gets to watch Californication - okay, maybe a little bit - I'm jealous of Tom Kapinos for his brilliance and for thinking of it first. I'd give anything to create a character as hilarious, twisted, and fearless as Hank Moody. I would love to see Rob Lowe audition for a role where he talks about killing hobos immediately after kissing Evan Handler. Like this:

Now that is some damn good writing. If your jaw didn't drop, then congratulations for having already seen everything.

I sit through the teen soap operas in exchange for the opportunity to surround myself with valuable material. Working with scripts on a daily basis allows me a closer look at what sells but also what's missing in Hollywood. With a little luck and a lot of work, maybe I'll even be the first to come up with something new that is as smart and cool and edgy as Californication.

Then maybe one day, an aspiring writer will have to sneak into her place because the crew working on my film restricted access to the building in which she lives. Personally, I don't think anyone in Hollywood can say they've made it until they've forced someone to sneak into their own apartment.

"Being Scottish has never helped anyone."

Writing is a curious occupation.

If a person is broke, stays up all night, sleeps all day, takes notes while listening in on a private conversation, thinks out loud, bursts into laughter for no apparent reason, and hangs around the house in their underwear staring at a computer screen for hours on end while drinking a cocktail or five, that person would be thought of as a loser, a creep, and an alcoholic.

Or a college student.

But because I fancy myself a writer, all of that is considered part of the job: it's research. You don't even have to get paid as a writer to be one. You just have to write.

Since any experience is now fair game for creative material, I can always tell people I'm working if I get caught doing something weird. Which is pretty much all the time.

Except for right now. I am doing something weird, but at least I'm not working.

It's noon; time to start getting ready for my real job - the one that pays. Unfortunately, they expect you to show up fully clothed.

"I could never lead a cult! I'm far too shy."

I love living alone. There is nobody here to finish off my milk, aggravate my OCD, wake me up in the middle of the day, or complain about the fact that I never wear pants.