I had a comedy of errors with the State Library of Victoria.

My cousin brought me on as a consultant to her media distribution company and I got her  a meeting at a major studio.

I watched my friends fall apart over “A Woman Scorned,” the antepenultimate episode of season 2 of Scandal.
Shonda Rhimes is clearly a former mistress turned murderer.

I went to a “job interview” for a massage therapist during which a very well meaning Chinese woman asked me, in sign language, if I gave happy endings.

I said no.

“Well, what if they just want to touch your leg a little?”

Still no.

I compared and contrasted raw dairy legislation between America and Australia with the store clerk at the organic food shop up the road.

I wore yoga pants.

I did no yoga.

My flatmates and I had wine/cheese/story time while listening to Sam Cooke and the Everly Bros on vinyl.

I Skyped.

I ran.

I worried.

I relaxed.

I ate a black sesame and vanilla macaroon.

I realized that I never pictured myself at 30 so I don’t know if I am “where I thought I’d be.”

I hoped for something amazing.

I always do.

A portrait of the artist at 29