Last week, it sent me into a little bit of a tailspin. Five years suddenly became FIVE years. And thinking about the next five had me gripping the steering wheel on the way home from work in blind panic.

Most of the scripts I’d written up to now were tucked away safely in a file on my computer. Or, at best, read by Studio Executives who called my agents and said, “We loved it but can it be more murder-y?” 

Hope is like strapping on a bulletproof vest. While you're wearing it nothing can touch you. You’re safe and secure and happy. You believe in a world that’s full of miracles.

My little tattoo was like a marker for this time in my life. A little flag planted in the ground of my thirty-third year.

I felt like a junkie who couldn’t get her fix. As my withdrawal deepened, I tried to tell myself I didn’t care. Maybe this was my wake up call. Maybe I’d be one of those people who didn’t have a personal Facebook account – like Barack Obama or my dad.

Lately I’ve seen things like this circling around. Articles/tweets/memes (God help us, the memes!) that try to draw a partisan line between things that are non-partisan. As if we don’t already have enough division. Despite the obvious harm this is doing to our country, the rhetoric continues to grow – feeding off clicks and likes and shares.

I should have been going out every night, taking shots, standing on tables and screaming, “I’m a TV writer!!” until they kicked me out and banned me from ever coming back.Instead I was moping around the house in my polka dot pajamas.

To me, it felt like you read a piece about a woman struggling to start a family - longing for children - instead of showing compassion, you told her what she was doing wrong. 

I always considered freezing your eggs something women did so they wouldn’t feel pressured by their biological clock while they were advancing their careers or vacationing in Mazatlan. 

To me, this is more than a job. It’s the reason I left my family and friends to move to LA. It’s why I worked three jobs and once sold my bike to pay my rent

I was hit by a tidal wave of shame. It whispered to me that I was broken. Faulty. Not a real woman.

Across the street from our hotel was a Hardee’s with a sign that boasted Tuesdays were “10% Off Christian night.”

I was scooping pasta into a to-go container at the hot food bar when I noticed her. She was getting a salad.

I grew up eating organic and I didn’t even know that was special until I moved to Los Angeles.

Democrat or Republican, alt-left or alt-right, I think we can agree that the recent news cycle has been like riding an old, rickety roller coaster you’re sure is going to come apart at any moment.

The activist in me swelled with pride. The introvert in me wanted to curl up in a ball and scream, “Stop touching me!!”

I cast my ballot and felt the grey exhaustion of the past election fade a little.

She wasn’t exactly the embodiment of compassion as she handed me a robe and told me I could leave my socks on.

This Thanksgiving I wanted to make it special. I wanted to take on the impossible task of filling the giant, Spanish-speaking, long-story-telling gap Ron left at our table.

All I know is that after the election results, I engaged in my first ever Facebook fight and buried myself in bed with a bottle of wine to binge watch “The Crown.”