On the surface, writing for a comedy television show seems pretty straightforward. (There are no fewer than eleven podcasts dedicated to unearthing the many mysteries of “the writer’s room.”) A fellow TV writer friend came home complaining about the travails of “the room” so often that her 7-year-old son asked his Catholic school if they could dedicate their morning prayer circle to his mom, who’s been “trapped in the room.” The teacher called home to make sure there wasn’t a Brie Larson thing going on. I write for TV, which by all accounts, including my own, is a very neat job, not to mention one subject to a lot of cult-ish fascination. And yet, at mine, it ended up coming in handy, pun very much intended. (Obviously the other hand is occupied.) Not so much an appropriate story to share at 99 percent of workplaces out there. Balancing the phone on the back fingers, using the thumb and pointer to expand the photo? That’s some Simone Biles-level hand gymnastics. Specifically how I pinch-zoom on the 'grams to “cut out” distracting details-his wife, new baby, and rescue dog-and how this base act actually requires real dexterity. It was maybe four weeks into my most recent job when I started telling my newish coworkers, many of whose lower halves I had yet to meet (hat tip, pandemic), about how I masturbate to pictures of my ex-boyfriend on Instagram.
