The one where I'm horribly sick...

Another day at the studio. I just have to sit there while Mr X runs around, there's nothing for me to do. There probably is but my heart is not in this right now. I'm so tired. So so tired. And so so confused. This time round it’s his BMW to deal with. The thing is it’s being repaired BUT he has to sign the waver allowing them to let him fix it.

Mr X is not happy. There’s a note pad he needs in his car. He wants it. He wants me to drive to South Bay to pick it up but I pointed out that there’s a man coming from BMW in South Bay and he’ll bring it with him. A proper assistant would drive to South Bay. In heavy traffic. Then drive to Zuma. In rush hour. God I'm shit at this job. I'm beginning to feel sorry for Mr X. He deserves someone who'll drop everything. The signs are there. I can't do this job properly.

At 12.30pm the man’s there. Mr X signs. He hands over the note pad. It’s the wrong one. Mr X goes apoplectic. I mean properly mental. I had fucked up. But how could they get the wrong one? What was I thinking? I should go down there immediately. I’m well pissed off. Well pissed off. I don’t want to drive all the way down there. This is ridiculous. Mr X storms off and goes to meet the DP. South Bay is calling... Shit. This is not a good day.

I call BMW. The notepad had fallen off the backseat in the crash. It was lodged under the front seat. No where in sight. No where. The pages had gone all over the place. Mike from BMW, thankfully, lives in West Hollywood so I don’t have to move to South Bay but Mr X’s not impressed. He wants me to go to South Bay. But… first… I have to get their lunch.

It’s a walk. A long one. But… off I trot. No worries. As I walk down there, I think about my life. What am I doing again? And why? I’m getting shouted at about a notepad. I’m getting covered, on a regular basis, with pumpkin spice venti lattes – I’m clumsy. What can I say? Why am I here? I’m a bag of nerves. I don’t know if I’m going to have a job next week. No one’s said anything. I think I might be trying to fuck up this job on purpose, just so I get let go before I quit. I don't know. But something's not gelling here. I'm not gelling. I'm shaking. Regularly. I'm making more and more mistakes because I'm so nervous. I'm scared - doing a job in fear is not good. I'm falling apart - I've not been like this since I was bullied at my first job on Manchester United Magazine. Fuck.

Mr X’s stressed about the film and I’m getting it in the neck. Literally. My neck is stiff and painful and I want this to end.

Anyway… I pick up the soups and salad and get back to the studio. Waddya know? It’s cold. So I’m just putting the soup in the microwave when Mr X comes flying out of the meeting room. “NOooooooooo. Noam! Noooooo.” Huh? “Don’t nuke the soup? What are you doing? I can’t drink it now.”

Oh shit.

Erm.

I apologise. Too little too late.

“But it was only 20 seconds.”

“Don’t you know how bad that is? You don’t microwave.”

Oh well. Shit. Bollocks. Noam fucks up again. Sigh.

I head upstairs. I’ve been made acting west coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. I’ve got stories to write. This is what I probably should be doing. Rather than being bawled out for microwaves and note pads.

I get the note pad that evening. I’m spent.

It’s the Toscars this evening. Brits in LA. We did a parody of ‘The Reader’. The posted picture is of Naketa, painting one of our props for the film. By the time I get there I’m so tired. I went to MacDonalds before hand to get a filet of fish. That’s how run down I was. My head is pounding. Migraine alert. Again. I just want to be sick.

I’m at Life. On Wilshire. And I really want to be sick. So badly. But there’s no where to go. My friends are arriving. I wish I could muster some energy. Something. The Telegraph get in touch. They want a story but there’s no wireless here. I do it on my blackberry. Ridiculous. I really want to be sick. Physically sick. My migraine is really bad. I've not had one in a while. The last was a few months ago when the girls were visiting. I was sick as a dog then and I'm feeling like being sick again... pounding. Pounding. Pain. Vision. Blurred.

I do the story. I smile with my friends. I’m close to a breakdown. I know it. I’m just on the verge of something and it’s not pretty…. Everyone leaves and I can go. My friends have gone. I’ve been a rubbish friend. I can’t focus. I’m trying hard not to cry. I don’t know what’s wrong anymore. I’m thinking about notepads and stupidity and bmw’s and the maccyd’s is churning inside me.

I get home at 11.45pm. I’m horribly. Unbearably sick and my head is ringing. RINGING. I can’t sleep because I’m in so much agony. I’ve not been this sad for some time…

Bollocks. I've been sick. I'm always ill when my head's pounding. Not good. Not good at all. I really feel like I'm messing my life up.