Uncharacteristically, we got our asses out of bed to meet with a guy who’s going to help the man with a bullet-proof resume. Of course, between the two of us the DIY approach could kick cliched ass. But, the older I get the more pumped I get with the notion of paying someone else to do my shit.

Why walk when you can fly? OK, that makes no fucking sense there, but goddamn it I’m American and we know how to write checks and process credit cards.

Got my first rejection from a short film submission. Yay. For brief, unrealistic, unfocused moments I thin, “aw shit.” Then, after a couple of whacks up my own head and some earboxing, I remember that my exercise was process. Gotta get into the groove of trying, submitting, blabbity fucking blah.

You ain’t getting laid if you don’t get in the game.

I, of course, am sitting here writing about my dreams and aspirations (to get laid), because M.’s going on to the resume man about his old curriculum vitae. Small and closed that I am, listening in makes me think of me, Dee-Rob, center of my own miniature universe.