Okay, obviously my blog has turned into a "who could possibly be more depressed than me in the world" rant. But I think there's humor in that. There's something interesting there. I'm not looking for sympathy. Just for friends. Seriously. I need friends. I have like one. And she lives a few thousand miles away - in Santa Monica.
The truth is, I refuse to believe there aren't others of me in L.A. And I'm looking to start a network. A network of friends who are depressed but not really because they can laugh and have a good time at parties and can be entertaining and seem really, really happy when they have to and accept every social invitation they get - which for me is none. And in the friends category... well, that's why I want to start a friends network.
But seriously. There must be others out there. Others who are adrift but appear to be so brilliantly anchored and focused and fun that people just love to be around them. Let's all get together and love being around one another. It's sunny here. There are beaches. Griffith Park is cool. We could have fun! C'mon guys - let's DO IT!
Although, the sun thing presents problems for me. I wake up in the morning and it's gorgeous and blue skies and blue fucking jays and people loving their convertibles and I feel as if it's all to spite me. Because I'm not having fun and the blue jays don't like me and I don't own a convertible. And I'm not famous. But I think there are lots of those here - meaning people who aren't famous. So let's take that out of the equation.
But even the famous fuckers are depressed and lonely and really don't have any friends. I'm convinced of this. I don't know if it's because of the highways here. The distance between Santa Monica and Echo Park or the fact that people watch too much TV because that's their industry.
But a few months ago, my boyfriend and I were at a party at Carrie Fisher's house. No, we weren't there because we're star-fuckers -- well maybe but without going through with the fuck part (although, I do have a story but since I'm in a serious relationship now, I'll save it). No, of course, we're not going to refuse the invitation because we only get like two a year.
But the point is, it was like one of those birthday parties you plan last minute and just hope people will show up -- people you don't even really know but who will make you look cool and popular. Nobody seemed to really know eachother or know why they were there. There was, of course, Laverne and Shirley and a smattering of SNL alums (Kevin Nealon, Tim Meadows etc.) and some dude from "Desperate Housewives" but nobody seemed to really know one another or be enjoying themselves so I wondered why they were there. Could it be their lives were as empty and soulless as mine? Were they that desperate to accept any invitation (albeit it was Carrie Fisher's rad party house replete with two extra bungalows - one for 'Bachelors' and one for 'Bachelorettes').
I'm at the bar and Jason Lee is trying to avoid Courtney Love and mouthing to me, "Do you know anyone here?" "Um... no." I mouth back. Like I would. He didn't seem to understand I was a nobody, a non-celebrity, a depressed unfocused person who loves her latest anti-depressant because it simultaneously suppresses her appetite. For real, I don't eat anymore. Unless, it's Jack Daniels or chocolate. Or maybe he recognized me from my last stint as a Scientologist usher/janitor - that's the first level, you know. It gets much better they tell me.
So I felt just as sorry for everyone there just as much as I felt bad for myself. Except for Beverly D'Angelo. Everybody loves her.
I left feeling a lot better about myself. We're all lonely here. Mulholland Drive is as eerie as it seems in a David Lynch film. The "Hollywood" sign seems fake and smacking of "Fuck you - you won't make it or at least you won't be happy" to everyone.
So let's all embrace it. And become friends with me. Because I need them. And I'm not working this week, have nothing to do and no one to call. And Howie Mandel can only hold my attention on "Deal or No Deal" for so long. No matter how much his head shines with the possibility of an awesome offer from the 'banker.' | 
pissed off 