My morning commute isn't just me stuck in traffic.

It's the opening scene of my gritty urban drama, and every car around me is just an extra in my carefully curated B-roll.

He told me he was 'a really good cook' on his dating profile, and that he loved making 'gourmet meals.'

Turns out 'gourmet' means microwaving chicken nuggets and serving them on a plate he just rinsed under the tap.

I saw someone drop their glove on the sidewalk yesterday.

I didn't just pick it up; I ran after them in slow motion, hair dramatically catching the wind, internally narrating the hero's journey of returning the lost relic.

I spilled a tiny drop of coffee on my white shirt this morning.

I immediately pulled out my phone, composed myself, and filmed a dramatic monologue about the fragility of perfection, which I'm planning to submit to Sundance.