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wanting to take me away from all this and rub my stomach. Somehow, nothing I’m telling them sounds depressing and tragic anymore, but exciting and dramatic, a night in the life of a spontaneous party girl with outrageous and decadent friends. It’s amazing how my perception can shift so thoroughly when I get the slightest glimpse of how other people are seeing something. And I don’t know if it’s the material I have, the fact that I feel like I’m walking through glue today and am therefore less self-conscious, or that Tim’s smile is as white and bright and non-British as a Midwestern picket fence, but I find myself embellishing the stories a bit as I notice that and Brian and Tim are eating up every word, laughing hysterically the whole time.
    Brian drains his coffee and turns to Tim. “What did I tell you?” he asks.
    “If anything, you under sold her,” Tim replies.
    I’m reveling in the feeling I have right now, of all this attention on me, and feel their validation washing over me like a Jacuzzi stream would on aching muscles. And then I suddenly panic, positive that I’m going to say something utterly inane that will screw up this fabulous impression I’ve managed to make on Mr. Debonair Hot Shot Magazine Editor. I realize I have to get the hell out of Kings Road before Brian and Tim discover just how backward and unimpressive I am. I glance down at my wrist and pretend I’m looking at a watch even though I’ve actually forgotten to put it on today.
    “Would you look at that, I’m late!” I say, instantly shooting to my feet.
    Brian and Tim look surprised by my abruptness, but before I can even begin to analyze that, I start making my way toward the door.
    “Good to see you, Brian! Nice to meet you, Tim!” I sort of shriek as I knock into a Kings Road waitress.
    “She never even got coffee,” I can hear Tim say in his crisp English tone as I scatter away like a complete freak. I should probably talk to hot men only while intoxicated , I think as I rush back to my car.
     
    I wake up the next morning with the sense of purpose that anyone rising before noon and without a hangover on a Sunday morning must feel before remembering that I told Brian I’d go to this NBC party tonight. Brian tends to pass party invites along to me when he doesn’t want to go, using phrases like “really good career opportunities” and “important just to get out there and network.” The parties always sound terribly exciting at the time—and I always feel flattered that I’m the one he wants to go in his stead—but the day of, I always regret having said yes.
    Part of the problem is that invariably you have to go to these things alone. When you’re at Brian’s level, you get an automatic plus one; but when the invite’s been transferred to me, somehow that extra space they would have had at the event evaporates, and I’m left circling the room endlessly, constantly pretending I’m looking for someone specific when really I’m just seeking out anyone I know or someone who looks friendly enough to approach.
    As I glance at the invite for the event—which will be held, as all of these things seem to be, at one of those glamorous but nondescript Culver City hotels—a feeling of dread threatens to overwhelm me. Why did I tell Brian I’d love to go to this? What made this sound good at the time?
    I put the invitation down and remind myself to think positively. Who knows what could happen here? I could meet a television producer who could decide I’m far too interesting to be wasting away at a cubicle desk and create a show around me. When you live in L.A. and aren’t physically deformed in some way, everyone always asks you why you’re not trying to be an actress. Theatrical though I am, I always felt that I didn’t have the struggle to be an actress in me—I mean, I feel shitty enough without lining up with a bunch of bitchy anorexics to compete for one line on Grey’s Anatomy. No, I’d decided that