Hi. I’m YZ. I’m an alcoholic.
Well, I’m not. I can’t drink alcohol.
So why would I ever attend an imaginary AA meeting?
Because I think I might be an addict.
No, I am.
I’m no smoker. In fact, I hate the smell of burning tobaccos. Growing up in a household with two serial smokers, namely my dad and his dad. So thanks but no thanks.
I’m single so sex is not a viable option. Technically, I can Tinder or Bumble should I choose to. But first dates are as far as I can go. Sorry, Moana.
Full disclosure: I, am the whole package, the brains, the looks, and the butt. And frankly, I’m done getting zilch callbacks when clearly I’m not actressing and they’re no casting directors. I’ve contemplated being bi or gay. Like-minded women would gimme some game. But I’m typecasted. I’m straight through and through. Damn.
I have a sweet tooth. But with my meager income in my brief history of employment in LA, I refuse to buy sweets. When I still worked at that snazzy production company, I had an abundant supply of M&M’s, Kit Kats, Snickers… Why not when they’re free?
I have a humongous stomach. Thanks to my Crazy Asian Metabolism, I’ve out-eaten more than one six-footers on some bad and good days.
I binge TV shows and call ’em my research, because I can. I am an unemployed screenwriter after all.
“I’m an addict, too.” A podcast guest confessed, after I revealed my Salt & Vinegar chips addiction since my England sojourn.
“So what do you do?”
“I get up at four so I can beat everyone else and hit the gym at five.”
“I run like crazy especially when I’m stressed. If I’ve passed 400 miles in a month doubling my usual stats, I know I’ve had a really bad month.”
Who on earth said being vulnerable is therapeutic? Brené Brown?
I need to binge something. But my fridge is too healthy. And I don’t want to get dressed. 7-11 is literally 50 feet away from my apartment.