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and Dabao met at the door of the editing room, and they were unkempt and sad. Everyone is exhausted, and every action is in slow motion mode, which looks quite comedic. She slowly handed me the key to the house and said, "Why are you going?"

I said, "Go home and make fried chestnuts with sugar."

She raised her eyebrows sluggishly, expressing her respect for the event in slow-motion mode.

I don't want to. But first of all, I saw fresh bags of chestnuts at Whole Foods today, and it was very cute to kowtow one by one, and I couldn't forget it. Second, I confused the Pro Tools settings again. The recorded Foley couldn't be opened. I can't do my homework, what can I do, I have to go home and cook.

Use scissors to open a cross for chestnuts, first boil and then fry. The waiting time was too long, and a pot of milk tea was boiled on low heat by the stove. I looked like it was cooked, so I picked it up and tasted it, and it actually tasted good. I was very moved, this is really a new realm of life.

On the other side of the new realm, I stayed in the editing room until 6 a.m. last Thursday, dozed off in the school classroom hallway for two hours, searched for all the suitable positions for sleeping in chairs, and then worked from 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. The next night, I went to have a hot pot with the bear and asked for a beer. After a while, I felt my brain swing in my skull, and after another moment, I ran to vomit in the bathroom.

The sink has a very narrow leakage, and vomit cannot leak down. I thought for a minute in front of a mess. Thinking about whether to go out and face the crowd of people queuing outside, or try to clean up. It took me twenty minutes to clean the sink. I felt that this scene was very suitable for a one-act play. Sitting down at the table, I felt a little better and drank half a beer. It's okay, I thought to myself, after all, there's nothing left to vomit.

Ten minutes later, I threw up in the hallway leading to the bathroom at the hot pot restaurant. Spit out a bunch of foam first, then stomach acid.

Ah, I thought in shock, The Little Mermaid.

Bear is a good guy who is calm and composed. On this weekend that was planned to be a carnival with my fox friends, she fished me home. And mixed me with honey lemonade. The enamel cup is pink. The canvas bag hanging from the door is grass green. I lay at the foot of her bed and heard the occasional burst of merry laughter from her roommates outside the door.

It was a great day. I immediately wrote a script for this scenario. I remembered that about a month ago, I also went to drink. There were still four days before the shoot, and I turned on the art. R and J dragged me to a late-night bar with deafening music. I walked in with a nervous heart, desperately trying to connect the tablet to a fifth email. Half an hour later I said, another drink. After another hour, the barkeeper patted R on the shoulder and reminded her to take a good look at me. I showed up at the door of the house in the early hours of the morning and vomited in the community flower bed, full of regret for the morning glory inside. I burst into the house, and my roommate and her suitor sat up from the couch in shock.

You're so good-looking. I said to her. She gave me a glass of water. I collapsed on my clothes. I slanted up the stairs and collapsed on the bed, a clear thought popping into my head: this is how everyone started drinking.

The good news is that I now understand that I am not suitable for alcohol. Rather than leaving vomit in various public places in California, I tend to find other vices to relieve my grief of having nowhere to go, like, well, journaling.

Last week I finally wrote an email to the professor in the directing class and told him that I felt that some of his words and actions made me very uncomfortable. He wrote back that he felt it was a cultural difference. It's even more infuriating. I had to give him all sorts of details like a scheming fool to prove that he was in a universal sense that I was very offended. I was very frustrated when I finished writing it, the taxi drove to the wrong address, and I said don't drive, I'll walk.

Blue wind chimes hang under the eaves of California homes in the sun, and large, bright flowers bloom on the trees. I did learn a lot in this class. Alas, the wind chimes did something wrong, but these houses looked offended to me.

But this thing is also in the past. Signing up for the course today had a system issue and sent a bunch of angrier emails – I was sometimes amazed at my anger reserves, wondering if it was taking me deeper or away from life. I want to shoot a new essay next week. I found a B&B with a crowded and cluttered triangular roof, and a lot of clothes and socks hanging from the attic, and I thought the actor could sit on the back of the tiles and watch the beach in the distance. I emailed the landlord and I thought your roof was particularly beautiful, and I said, do you mind if we come and make a movie, you can put the video online.

Today she sent an email, a little hesitant, but agreed. What a great idea, let's find some interesting light sources, candles, stoves, small light bulbs. If there's one vice that's more harmful than alcoholism, more expensive than cooking, and more revealing of one's own low-level tastes than keeping a diary—it's probably making movies. I opened Amazon and started searching for light bulbs.