Memo to self:

Do not invite the current man you are seeing to next year’s screenwriting expo on Sunday night. Two weeks before, I know it sounded like a great idea, but it so wasn’t. We’re talking like an epic style disaster in the making. Just don’t do it.

The screenwriting expo is an escape into the Hollywood/Los Angeles reality of maybe, just maybe I’ll write that one screenplay that the studio executives will love and I’ll make wads and wads of money.

Never mind that Hollywood studio execs are fearful of losing their jobs and being the one to greenlight the next ‘Ishtar’ or ‘Waterworld’. Never mind that Hollywood studio execs are trolling thru the Japanese cinema to remake the next runaway Japanese horror flick adaptation. Never mind that the Southeast Asian market is starting to become exceedingly more profitable than the US market, and those audiences want ‘blood, blood and more blood’, which means Hollywood studio execs want ‘blood, blood, and more blood.’

But wait a minute … there are screenwriters out there who’ve made it. There are screenwriting experts galore who for three days teach you the screenwriting secret mantra, ‘Good characters and story still sell in Hollywood.’

But on Sunday night when you’re exhausted from:

1) having supershuttle pick you up at god awful hour so you could make the 6:30 am flight to LAX, then being in seminars from 1 pmm to 8:30 pm on Friday not to mention being up till 1:30 am chatting with the cute guy who says he’s optioned two films and is a budding Hollywood producer (everyone at the expo was a budding Hollywood producer), and marveling at the amazing gene pool of men who are at the party because Hollywood is always full of pretty people.

2) Waking up on Saturday at 6 am to iron your clothes for the next two days, then going on a run around the LA Convention Center at 6:30 am because all that great mexican beer you drank the night before made you feel fat and you’re afraid of not fitting into your clothes, then attending seminars from 8 am to 8:30 pm and then partying at the Networking party and wondering how much you need to speak to on the guys who wrote Shrek, and then ending up at another bar and chowing down on Domino’s pizza because it’s the only pizza place open in downtown LA that will deliver and getting to bed at 2 am.

3) And then finally it’s Sunday and you’ve slept in till 7 am and attended seminars from 10 am to 1:30 pm and attended the closing ceremony exhausted but happy that you came and swearing to yourself that you’ll get your writing act together and finish that screenplay and write three new screenplays to pitch at next year’s expo.

It’s like so anti-climatic to see someone from your 'normal real world' show up to take you to dinner, and all you can talk about is all the guys you’ve met, and how cute Aaron Sorkin is. And your guy looks at you like he doesn’t really quite like you right now and you feel guilty as hell that you’re talking about other guys, and mad as hell at yourself for even inviting him.

And then you end up flying back home on Monday morning and crying from sheer exhaustion and misery at 7 pm as you check your 80 plus personal email messages because now you’re thinking it’s totally over between you and your current guy, never mind that you’ve been trying to break up with him since October 1 and he doesn’t deserve any of your attention anyway.

Having your fantasy/dream worlds and real worlds collide like that on a Sunday night at 7 pm in Los Angeles in close proximity to Hollywood, maker of fantasy/dream worlds, is just such a bummer, a huge, huge bummer.