The one where it's finally over...

I’m in the car, ready to go on my way and… I realise. Hang on. My GPS has been taken. I suddenly remember when I got into the car that my perfume was on the seat, which was weird. And… hang on. My UK cell phone which I left in the car has also been taken. What? I’ve been broken into. I can’t believe it. What is up with my luck? I’m so not having it easy in this city. Seriously.

Yesterday I smashed up my computer. I haven't even started on the fact that my car was surrounded by Coyotes the other day. Yep. Coyotes. They were growling at Max (who was in the car coming back from the vet). I've been shot. I also failed to mention I was in a car accident as well. A five car pile up. That was completely terrifying. Oy. I've had two court appearances due to two traffic offences. Okay, so I got off one and I'm due in court for the other to get an arraignment. Great. And now... my car's been broken into.

I cancel my phone. I realise that all my numbers have gone. I’m glad Mr X’s in New Mexico on a location scout. Now I can deal with my stuff. . Hooray. But now I have to deal with my shit. MY SHIT. Aaaargh. All this stuff. Why can’t things be easy? I just don’t know. I also have to fix my computer.

I put out a plea on facebook for a new blackberry and a new computer. Someone’s got a blackberry I can buy. Perfect. $65 and I’ll pick it up at lunch time. Then… a computer place so I head there. I need a new computer. I stop at a radio shack to get a GPS. They’ve run out. I get back to the car and I’ve got a ticket. A bloody ticket. I can’t stand it. When will things go right?

I get to the computer place and they have them at a reasonable cost but I have no money. Instead I get a new lead and a new battery. That appears to work. I can’t believe I got a ticket though.

I race over to see Jonathan and he clones my blackberry. HA! Now I have Johnny Depp’s email. I know. It’s sad. Very sad. But I want that email. I'm ready to leave gavin. I

I still can’t believe that my car’s been broken into. Jesus.

I find out that there’s a GPS for sale in Westwood at RadioShack so I head over there. The parking’s a nightmare. Nightmare. I get there. I’m so close to tears but I get the GPS. It’s only money. Only money.

I ring MW. And he calls me back. He makes me feel better and it’s all good. I like having people like that who cheer me up. Make me feel better. Who laugh at me. With me. It’s all good.

I’m all over the shop. I can’t wait for bed. I look in the boot. The thieves took my hair straighteners. They were brand new. And... some Serge Lutyens perfume (brand new, $120 - they have no idea what they've taken!) and... poker chips. They really went to town... they popped my damn boot. I'm livid.

Bed awaits. I’m going walking with ED in the morning. That’ll clear my head and tomorrow I face Mr X and tell him I’m leaving him. Bye bye Mr X. Bye bye.

The next day...

8.30am. ED’s outside the door with her two dogs. She’s dragging me up Runyon. She’s lithe, fit and beautiful with two big dogs. This should be interesting.

We get to Runyon, I can’t help but notice people deliberately steering their dogs in our direction. She was skipping along while I, on the other hand, was sweating. Sweating like a dawg. But, the dogs themselves seemed fine. Nothing wrong with them. We went down the hill and then ED knew this ‘shortcut’. It involved a sheer rock face and we ended up pushing the dogs over the rock. I had to scramble. Not dignified. ED gleamed as she skipped up the hill while I felt distinctly sweaty. Ew.

We make it home and now… now I’m nervous. Not long before I set out and see Mr X. We’re meeting at 1pm. At the house. A fifty mile trip there to tell him I don’t want to be with him anymore. It’s been FOUR months. That’s it. Seems longer. I think I'm going to be sick.

I take the slightly longer route to Mr X’s. Las Virgines. Love that road. I feel slightly sick.

I arrive at Mr X’s – he’s on the phone. I decide to retry calling Spike TV. I go outside as he’s on the phone and sit in the sun. Mr X calls me in.

“What’s going on?”

Er. Nothing.

He sits down, we have some general chitchat and then…

“Noam… do you want to go to Pittsburgh?”

me: “No. Pittsburgh’s not my dream.”

Mr X: “Good.”

So. That’s that. It’s over. We talk. He decides to tell me that I’m not a good assistant. I’m too over qualified. Everyone has been telling him that, while I’m nice, I don’t want to be an assistant. They ‘could all tell’. Apparently it was obvious to everyone. The thing is I really wanted this to work out. I like him. I really do. As a person. His talent is immense. His vision is incredible. I believe in him. I do. But I've really struggled just getting straight off a plane and into this world. I feel I've failed and I have nothing left to give. I know, deep down, I really didn't try this last month. I did, let's say 100% but this job needs %120. That extra mile.

The problem is that when I arrived in LA, I knew no one so was happy to turn my life and my will over to the power of Mr X. But, four months in, I've begun to get my own social life and am on a different path. One that doesn't want to go to Pittsburgh.

We decide that it’s over. I’m off. I don’t have to do this anymore. He says that I can have til the end of the week but I’m not working for him anymore. In fact, he wants me out of the house straight away. Just out of his sight. He's disappointed in me. I can see that. And I'm really sad now. Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I should have worked this out and seen it through.

So… by 1.20pm I’m released from duty. Free. Naturally he had a few things to say – that I didn’t do things immediately - I really did. I really did. That things weren’t done fast enough. That I should have gone to South Bay that evening the moment he said go pick up his notepad. So… now I see my error while working for Mr X. I can't be a robot with no life, someone who wants to live and breathe the business while being his slave. Not me. No thanks.

He started comparing me to Ms J and that’s when I really felt sick inside – talking about Ms J’s enthusiasm and her drive. Thing is, Ms J’s been doing this ten years, this is her life. It’s not mine. She knows what to expect and where things can go. I just feel too old right now. Useless. Mr X starts telling me about how Ms J maintained her enthusiasm, even at 4.30am. While me? I was tired. I was a no-show.

Is it really meant to be this hard? Really? Truly? Are all assistants meant to be run ragged? Leaving them with no feeling of self worth?

By 1.45 I’m back on the PCH heading home. I’ve never felt such liberation. Maybe after school, perhaps? When it was all over. I felt free then too. And a bit teary. But right now, I’ve never felt so free. I’m just past Zuma and on the phone to MK when I consider exactly what I’ve done. What the fuck have I done? I pull over to look at the sea.

“I’m FREE! FREE!”

So now what? That’s the problem. I have nothing set up. No life. No scripts. No nothing. I’m stuffed. I’m working for the Telegraph though, still, as their interim LA/West Coast correspondent. Still.. I’m a bit scared.

No. More. Mr X.

No more tenderwipes, no more zuma, no more shouting, no more drama, no more failure, no more verizon, no more blackberry, no more texts and emails at 6am or 1am, no more studio, no more yoga, no more spruzzo, no more ex-wife, no more girlfriend, no more BLS, no more diva, no more executives, no more housekeeper, no more pool man, no more gardener, no more broadbeach, no more hows, no more bk, no more Mr H, no more film, no more km, no more me, no more DTV, no more UFC, no more MMA, no more TR, no more PR, no more mexico, no more FG, no more cigars, no more vitamins, no more Malibu vitamin barn, no more drafts, no more shooting schedules, no more ADs, no more line producers, no more parking issues, no 100 round trips, no more pay packets, no more finance departments, no more VV, no more paramount, no more BMW, no more oil changes, no more tension, NO MORE MR X!!!!

I’m absolutely terrified.

I drive back a scenic route. I just don’t know what to do with my life now.

I’m in the palisades and stop in at a shop. Can’t buy a thing as I have no money but I look.

I’m due to be a press junket now. So I race across Hollywood and check into the hotel. Valet. Race upstairs.

Wrong hotel. I should be at Hollywood and Highland not La Cienega and Beverly. Doh. It’s the junket and there’s a dinner later that evening. I register and then head to the internet café. I’ve got work to do for the Telegraph. A bunch of writing and I have to get online.

At 6.30 I’m at the mandatory dinner. My head’s not there. Having just quit my job I just can’t handle it. I listen to the speeches, say hello to TB from London and then, bump into my old friend from Mexico, EM and then… I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

My head. My head is fucked.

I meet up with the Brits over in West Hollywood. I’m scared. But PMc introduces me to a few people – perhaps they can help me. I go to dinner and wonder just what’s going on here. I need to write. That’s what I need to do. But I need to eat. I really need money. And I need a home. REALLY need a home.

I go home elated yet deflated. For the first time I’ve been to LA I can turn my blackberry off now.

Shit. The Blackberry. I've got to give it back.

What have I done? What am I doing?

I've not been this scared about my future for a while. I've always had a plan. Always. And now? A leap into the unknown and I'm terrified.