Cry me a river

Three years ago, I told myself I would not look back and try to make it—

  • In Hollywood;
  • As a legit screenwriter;
  • Livin’ an American dream.

Then 2016 happened… To look beyond my personal low after I discovered my landlady’s scamming scheme—

  • Obama left.
  • Hilary lost.
  • Trump became the POTUS.
  • My former mentor, whom I’ve estranged since, once told me Trump doesn’t look crazy at all in person. That wise man, out of anybody, was considering taking a job on the Hill should the opportunity presented itself.

I witnessed the student potests on the UCLA campus. I bantered with a policeofficer and I shrugged off.

I was just an outsider. At least I thought I was. It was none of my business, just the way I was taught growing up how to react to the P word. [Translation: Politics.]

I didn’t know the impact of Trump’s shitshow to me, a total bystander, until I did.

What to do apart from screaming WTF?

I started to follow news commentators like Rachel Maddow. I realized that nobody is in anything alone. I would know how to talk about the P word more intensively next time after I’m back. And I’ll be back.

For now, let me just lie down on my back and cry some more.


Yours truly,

PS. Latest #RBYZ episode out now. I’m my own guest. This time, I talk about how I feel about leaving LA head-on.

WARNING: It’s pretty raw.