Trashley: Part One
The Physicist
I knew life had taken a turn for the worse when I woke up on New Year’s Day on a half-deflated air mattress in Bakersfield, California. Yes, that Bakersfield. The one that’s an hour and a half north of LA, right past the Grapevine, and directly above a sinkhole to Hell. To understand how I, a funny, smart, stupid TV writer and producer, wound up on an air mattress in a city known as The Devil’s Anus, we’d have to rewind the tape by a year.
At the beginning of 2021, the Pandemic was still living her best life, and I was stuck on my couch recovering from a vicious dog attack that left me immobile. I became a pro at staying inside in 2020, so I made the most of it: I read the Artists Way, which led to me keeping a daily three-page journal. I also created a Hinge account because I was bored and lonely. I hadn’t dated in years due to an incident that resulted in a MeToo lawsuit — which I won in the fall of 2019–-but hadn’t recovered from yet.
I put together my Hinge profile and set it to Los Angeles, women only, because I’m a lesbian. I’d always thought I’d meet the woman of my dreams organically on a free-range farm overlooking the Pacific, but meeting her on the Internet was faster and easier. Until then, I had mostly dated men and had no interest in ever making that mistake again. I didn’t do a whole coming out speech or throw a sexual…
