Angela Types

In 2005 I was living the high (mediocre) life in the city of Angels, L.A. working in this business we (they, or someone) called show. I wasn't just working in television, I was working in live television. And as if that wasn't enough of a chaotic setting for a great story for you, I also happened to be working for the first (yes, FIRST EVER) GLBTQ television network, appropriately called: Q Television Network with absolutely no experience. The details of how I found myself living in LA as a fresh college senior dropout from the tiny little hipster hotspot of Denton, TX will come later; because rest assured, I had no lifelong desire to work in production. I was a poetry major after all. On this particular sunny day I'm sitting in my office, with my staff (yes, at 23 I had a STAFF! Small, but still...) when I receive an email on my Sidekick. The sender was Jon, a new friend I'd made who worked in acquisitions. The subject was: Mini Kiss just ate the last bagel. The b

When I return home from work Bruce greets me in a manic explosion of joyous wailing, jumping, and kisses. I sometimes imagine him at home with his well used worry beads, licking them all day long. "Will she ever return? Where is she? How long has she been gone? Why can't I tell how long it's been?!" I let him outside and he keeps an eye on me while he's marking this tree. I see him twitch his nose, look down at the ground and actually jump away as if screaming "What the f*&k is this?!" I walk over to investigate and there's this rat staring up at us. Bruce is by the front door at this point, he's abandoned me. Woman’s best friend my ass. Like any god (and rat) fearing American, I grab a stick and poke it. It's dead but it looks alive. I poke it a little more so I can see if it's missing any parts, or search for some cause of death. Bupkiss. It looks young; around my age in rat years. So, old age shouldn't be the cause. I C

As I'm slopping crunchy bits into Bruce's bowl (and watching his drool drip onto the tile) my cell phone rings. I look at the caller ID, this time it's my boss. "Heey Angela! Good morning!" He sounds like he just woke up. "Hey Schmark (tee hee) good morning." "I'm running a little behind for the morning meeting, but I'm about to walk out the door, sorry about that. I think Schmandrew is running behind too. Has he talked to you this morning? He said he was going to call you..." My boss, like Schmandrew, also likes to talk. A lot. Working with the two of them has had an interesting effect on me. I'm usually a very talkative outgoing person, especially at work. But getting so frustrated at their chitter chatter all day while I'm trying to work has pushed me to rebel in a most obvious way- I am quiet. I am very quiet. So much so that they think I'm shy. Me. Shy. All this quiet is probably the reason I started this

So it's Tuesday at 6:14 a.m. I am a rockstar. I am jogging with my dog, plowing through my novel's plot points in my head and feeling fan-bloody-tastic. And thennnn..... my alarm goes off. I snooze for the next hour while my pudgy dog snores next to me. After the 6th snooze button, I hoist myself off of the bed and down the hall to clean all the only-in-my-dreams exercise sweat off. As the foamy white toothpaste drips down my chin I think of old people. Old people eating breakfast. I don't usually eat breakfast. Will I ever be old if I don't like breakfast? Are there old people that don't eat breakfast? Surely not. Bruce (my faithful corgi mix) flops his body down with a fleshy thud at my feet. The rush of air from his flop blew the thoughts of old people and breakfast from my head and I leave them suspended in the bathroom near the stacks of washcloths. I grab Bruce's leash and let him lead the way around the neighborhood. As I'm passing the Hillary '08