Before I tell you about the phone conversation with my mother that seemed to restore connection (kind of like Verizon, but with more tears), I want to talk about the SIX DAYS LEFT on my campaign to raise funds for the pilot episode. I’m so grateful for all the support so far. Because of you guys, this is quickly becoming a reality.
If you know of anyone who hasn’t seen the video yet, pass it on!
In the meantime, I am residing in Queens in what I like to call a character-building secret bunker, AKA small room with no window. After being disowned by my parents for my perhaps not-so-nice betrayal of them in my blog, I found myself feeling like a bad teenager who’s been kicked out of the house and staying with a delinquent friend.
This has its plusses, please note. Independence. New beginings. Looking up from rock-bottom and only seeing possibility. But then there’s the sadness.
I texted my sister and told her to tell my mom to call me. She did. I was in the middle of an outer borough Starbucks and started crying my eyes out when I heard her voice. Everyone was staring at me, but I didn’t care. She told me how hurt she was. I told her I was just trying to create something funny, like Seinfeld, but using some moments of painful truth. I don’t know that we came to an agreement about anything, but I do know that she wasted no time telling me to go online and find a husband. “Please sweetheart. You’re not getting any younger.”
And so it goes…
Your correspondent in dysfunction, drama, painful humor, and love gone awry,