I saw Steven Spielberg again this morning. I am not stalking him (I swear) but apparently we both enjoy the same Starbucks. It was an LA cliche, however, as I was sitting at a table editing my writing (did I mention I'm taking a UCLA writing class? Is it noticeable in my blog entries? What no? Still an average of 20 typos per post? Great) and I paused to look up, in deep thought, and there he was again Mr. Spielberg.
I want to be Steven Spielberg. I don't. Well I do... well I just want to some day look back at my many accomplishments and think, well shit, that was all pretty great. The man is a filmmaking genius. I know little to nothing about filmmaking. I know more than I did when I was living in New York, but in the grand scheme of things--not a whole lot. (Perhaps this has something to do with the amount of time I spend at work blogging? Nah, that's what keeps me sane).
I am dangerously close to turning this into another existential crisis rant so maybe I should quit now and actually get some work done.
Or, I can comment on the fact that it's Thursday, I just had a delicious grapefruit, and despite my morning coffee, I am, as always... tired. The weekend can never come soon enough. I bought a CD at Starbucks this morning. I am easily sick of my music. But buying new tunes at a coffee chain? I'm totally caught up in the system. It's a good CD though, Duffy, who's an Amy Winehouse type minus the drug addictions, beehive and incarcerated boyfriend. Good stuff.
Apologies for the stream of consciousness. I am all over the place right now.
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