I fucked up my hand ... bad! Thankfully, I didn't break it or even sprain it, but it was pretty banged up and was bleeding incessantly. I was drunk, so who cares, right! I got back on the bike and started to follow my friends again, completely disregarding the fact that I couldn't stop or that my hand was gushing with blood. We got to the bar and I somehow managed to stop the bike and get off of it without my friends having to ask me again, 'Do you know how to ride a bike?' We got some drinks, took some pics, posted them on Facebook, and then we were off to watch the fireworks. But as my buzz started to wear off, I started to realize, 'shit I really hurt myself!' But once my friends took their bikes in the middle of the street with on-going traffic, since I wanted to live to see another day, I decided to stay on the sidewalk and walk with the bike instead. Soon after, my friends were gone. Whoops, should I have told them that I wasn't following them? Oh well, I'll find them soon enough ... in the sea of thousands of people ... in a place that I don't know very well. Shit! I called my friend, who then yelled at all of the guys to go and find me. Finally, I told her that I was in front of a hotel. But, then my phone died. Awesome!

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Even though I'm a writer, it's always a constant battle. And as of recently, I've been, well, confused. Am I a TV writer? A screenwriter? A playwright? A novelist? Am I even funny? Or am I just a silly blogger? That's the question I've been asking myself time and time again. That was when I realized, I needed a new path. I needed guidance. I needed something original to write about. I'm 30-years-old, what the fuck have I been doing all these years? But when I really thought about it, the one thing that always pops into my mind ... is my mom. My entire life, whether it was my friends, my family, my co-workers, or even my former writing teachers, everybody says the same thing -- your mom is a fucking psychopath, but she's hilarious. A recent writing teacher of mine, who wrote one of my favorite movies of all time, even told me that I should write about my mom. So, after four semesters of college, tons of writing classes and thousands and thousands of dollars later, I have finally realized what I need to do. Write about my mom! So, I've started a new blog and I'm SO excited to share it with you guys! Please check out My Mom Thinks I'm a Lesbian ... and Other Things. Being able to write about my own experiences, and being so honest, so raw, is so amazing that words cannot even describe. I hope you'll check it out. And yes, I'll still continue to blog here at The Dating Jungle.

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My whole life, I've always been a good friend. Always the first one to ditch out on plans if one of my girls breaks up with her boyfriend. Always the first in line to listen to everyone's problems. Always the one to ask, 'Hey, how are you?' But when push comes to shove, would any of my friends do the same for me? Do my friends hang out with me now that my boyfriend's out at sea? Do my friends listen to any of my problems? Do my friends ever fucking ask, 'Hey Jen, what are you doing today?' The answer is: not really. I don't know if it's because I live in Hollyweird, but as of lately, I've been noticing that people only give a shit about themselves, and absolutely nobody else. Not once do any of my friends ask me; How are you, Jen? What have you been up to? How is work going? How are things with your boyfriend? What did you do for your birthday? As people get older, do they only give a shit about themselves and nobody else? Has this always been the case and I just somehow, never noticed? Or is this only because I live in Hollyweird?

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While I went missing for a short while, lots of things happened. My friend ended up getting arrested. So, that happened. And once the boys came back after not finding me and saw all of the cop cars, they were like, 'Oh my god, Jen got hit by a car!?' And then everyone was all, 'Oh my god, she did!?' Instead, I was still waiting in front of some god damn hotel, waiting for somebody to come and find me. But apparently my friends were so frustrated, they were like, 'We'll find her later!' As I continued to wait in front of the hotel, you know, just standing there with a bike, a couple of my friends were driving by. They were leaving to go to a club, (because who doesn't go to a club on July 4th!?), they ended up bringing me back to the group. So much for July 4th! But hey, at least we didn't end up getting kicked out of a club, ending up in a limo with no cash, like last weekend!

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My fourth of July was a shit show. Let me rephrase that. My fourth of July was like an episode of 'Jersey Shore.' My friends and I went for a bike ride down to Venice Beach, which sounded like a great idea at the time. Since I didn't have a bike of my own, my friend let me borrow hers, which let's just say was way too big for me, even with the seat adjusted. Sure, it looked a bit scary, considering the fact that I haven't ridden a bicycle since I was about 12-years-old, but how hard could it be? You don't forget how to ride a bike, do you? And so, we all got on the bikes and took off. But as soon as I hopped on the bike, I was like 'fuck, I'm going to fall, possibly even die.' Everybody stopped at the red light. I didn't. I couldn't. Instead, I ended up falling.

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