I'm drafting this at La Taquiza, my old fave taco joint from my USC days. Sitting at my old fave corner table with my yellow legal pad. I'm headed to a screening on campus tonight, and the plan was: 1) print out a chunk of script (check), 2) get down here early and park (check), 3) sneak into the library and force myself to do some revisions. Lol. By the time I managed 1 and 2 I was hungry, so part 3 became: go to La Taquiza and force myself to do revisions. The thing is, I don't feel like doing revisions. Desperately don't feel like it. So I'm drafting a letter to you instead.

Just finished my tacos, and ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I've turned into a taco snob. The pastor was flavorful, but a little too salty. The first bite of the suadero was delish, I was hopeful, but then it got chewwwwy. Suadero should not be chewy. I had to spit a nub of gristle into my napkin. The potato taco was greasy, crispy, smoothly mashed. Not bad, not mind-blowing. Mulitas are really the order here, but I'm trying to avoid cheese.

After years of being a smug gluten-free eater who rolled her eyes at the No Dairy people (I know, where did I get off) I've realized I do better without dairy. It's not my digestion. It doesn't give me headaches. It's my vanity. I'm finally facing the truth, which is that cheese makes me break out. I wish I'd realized this in my 20s—or maybe I don't. Would I take back all those blissful 2am slices? That pizza shop that was on the corner of 6th Ave and Bleecker, right on my walking route home from the Soho theater and the bar around the corner from the theater where I spent so many nights. No idea if that pizza was any good. But it was hot, and it cost, I think, $1.75.

Speaking of dairy and also gluten, the other spot on my route home from the bar was Magnolia Bakery, famously ruined by Sex in the City. S and I used to leave South's early to make it to Magnolia by midnight. We'd always skip the cupcakes (Pro tip, 18 years too late: SKIP THE CUPCAKES) and get a ginormous slab of German chocolate or hummingbird cake. $3.75 and worth every quarter scraped from the bottoms of our bags. A slab of cake eaten drunk on the street with your great friend is the very best cake in the world. And that cake was objectively superb! I'd never take that away from me.

You know those essays, or like interview questions, "What piece of advice would you give your 20-year-old self?" Fuck that, she'd never listen to you anyway. Let her eat cake.

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