7/26/12

I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of 21. Everyone thinks growing up that they’re going to have this awesome, fabulous life. That somehow they’re just so special that they’ll slingshot over everyone else who leads an average existence and become some super happy person with a super fantastic job and a super fantastic life. Accepting that I’ll lead a very average life in a very average way with probably a very average job makes me feel like a fifty year old who wants to buy a Camero.

7/25/12

Saturday I’ll be gone. My roommate doesn’t move out until the first week of August, but apparently she absolutely had to move all of the silverware out with her this weekend. For the next four days I’ll be living off of forty four plastic knives, three plastic spoons, and a giant spatula. I’ve packed everything of mine except for one frying pan and one pot. Though I’ve cooked enough food for the week that I probably can pack those up, too. But still, you don’t see me taking silverware from her. It’s not like I’m still here or anything, no, thinking of others instead of yourself is silly. By all means, take my silverware. I’ll go back to caveman days and eat with my hands. Or make bizarre chopsticks from plastic knives.

7/24/12

There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me.

The idea being that if you say something enough, it becomes true. It's all about acceptance, dietitians and therapists say. Accepting yourself, being happy and comfortable in your own skin. Being aokay with being who you are, because dislike doesn't cause change that sticks, being comfortable lets change happen gradually.

Yeah, sure.

7/23/12

Alphabetical Exercise Cont.

Look for the extraordinary in the ordinary, you're told, everyday has an adventure you're not seeing yet. Maybe it's because you're too busy running to auditions and rehearsals and trying to pay the rent and eat in the same month, but you know you can't do both. Or maybe it's hard to see the excitement when your neighbors party and fight 'til three am while all you want to do is practice and sleep. People don't see you as you, you're "alternative", living the lifestyle that doesn't need a nine to five and a white picket fence with 2.5 kids and a dog named chappie. Question your reality, that's what they want, to pull you into the normal and boring. Relax, you live in a world of glitter and sequins, of performance and stages of lights and booming sound. Slip into the comfort of that alternative world and run from ergonomic chairs and keyboards. Tomorrow you'll wake up to worry all over again but tonight it's you, the audience and that stage. Under the cloak of blackness, you're ready. Wait for it. Xanadu, my Xanadu, live in a world of your own accord! Your life is your own and it's full of bourban smiles and red velvet curtains being opened. Zap, you're there, live it.

7/22/12

T-minus four days 'til lift off. We have a go, I repeat, we have a go. Ready to launch. Launch where? What next?

7/21/12

They stare at you as you lay your blanket down next to theirs. It's strange, they think, that you're there. But why is that? They're there too. Why is your arrival so strange? You're stared at like a shiny new penny until your luster wears off and they go back to staring at the water. Suddenly you're less interesting.

7/20/12

Alphabetical Writing Exercise

"Audience" is just a fancy word for a group of people you've forced and coerced and tricked into listening to and watching you, despite their better judgement, despite their flailing bank accounts, in spite of their overwhelming urge to run and leave in search of something less artsy fartsy, more raunchy, like a club called Bottoms Up with a waitress wonderfully named Chastity, trading a gilded theatre for sticky floors and neon lights with which somehow seem safer and more anonymous than a theatre full of sleepy patrons, all discovering their insomnia is suddenly cured but all all battling like Vikings to stay awake until the end, if only to join in the pseudo-intellectual lobby conversations to follow. Bottles of bourbon roll across your dressing room floor that night, a tinkling reminder of your lack of energy on stage. Creativity, it's a drug. Don't get addicted, but of course you already are. Even a drop, they say, can hook you for a lifetime. Forget family, fame, friends, finances and chase that next hit that'll never be as good as your first. Go out at night and twirl in the rain 'til inspiration strikes, because that's what artists do, right? Hole up inside your apartment with blankets and Mrs. Grass Soup because you, Madame Super Artist, are not impervious to germs. Ideas strike like mocking lightning , knowing that you're down for the count and can't even open your eyes to jot them down. Joke's on you, you laugh, 'cause you're a performer and your memory is a hard earned skill. Keep from crying when you realize you're full of shit.

TBC

7/19/12

There's no way to politely say, "Your writing bores me." And there's no polite way to hear it.

7/18/12

The sunset wasn't orange originally. That's something that came from humans. It's beautiful though and we know it, and even though it's from all the crap we're spewing into the atmosphere, we can still sit on our decks at sunset with a mug in our hands, relaxing to the toxic sight.

7/17/12

I don't know the origins of my anger. I'm sure there's a genesis they can be traced back to but I'm not omnipotent enough to find it. Those moments of sadness only linger for a few instants before dissolving into that rage pit. Uneasiness, fear, sadness, all melt to gut burning rage, like the dankest whiskey attacking my organs. It's so much easier that way.

7/16/12

There's a religion called Origin on a sci fi show. The priors mutilate themselves and travel around hurting others, terrifying and threatening them into believing. Violence, burnings, death. They use sneaky science to make it look like gods are reaching from the beyond. Now tell me, how's that any different from religion today?

7/15/12

I'm away for your birthday for the first time in twenty one years. I'm far away and sorry. Birthday dinner and waterskiing trump stumbling through poems and vacuuming.

7/14/12

12 days. So, what now? 15 years later and the carpet is being pulled from under my feet. I'll land on my butt with no idea what to do. Looking up at everyone towering above me. Then what?

7/13/12

Heroine and heroin. So close, yet one saves lives and one twists them into inconceivable wrecks. Savior and killer.

7/12/12

Pantsless Wednesdays are back! The roommate is gone, the days are hot, I'm down to not caring. What's obscene in public rocks in the privacy of your own home.

7/11/12

Chesty Morgan was a Polish stripper before Wishman made her a movie star. A 73 inch bust and a heavy accent only gets you so far. How much is too much?

7/10/12

Clothes don't matter much in summer. The heats get to the point where no one cares what they look like, they'll dress like a slob or skank to avoid dripping sweat and heat stroke. As Alissa says, no fucks given.

7/2/12 - 7/9/12

7/9/12
Three weeks, counting down. Halfway through a half of a quarter, buckle down, nut up or shut up, put on your big girl panties and let's get it done.

7/8/12
My hair was in a ponytail when I got burned. My scalp is streaked with red like tiger stripes. Brushing makes me wish I was bald, so I was slather on a thick layer of sunscreen. They should make sunscreen shampoo.

7/7/12
You're a slut for taking plan b. You're a whore for buying condoms. You're a skank for being on birth control. Close your legs! He's a badass for taking Viagra. Enjoy your sex!

7/6/12
She's pregnant. The four super christian couples are married straight from high school so they can finally have sex. Dropped out of PLU to get married and have a baby, though with no aspirations to go back. It's like watching Jerry Springer and realizing my life ain't going so badly.

7/5/12
They say when you get your tonsils out, you'll stop being sick. They're dirty liars. Two weeks later, viral meningitis. Three months later, swine flu. It's my immune system they say, sucks to be you.


7/4/12
He says he loves to save girls, loves the ride to the rescue and beat up the bad boyfriends and pull them into the safe arms of a loving relationship. It's impressive, he thinks, telling girls about how he hates woman beaters and abusive men, though he fails to realize that's just common decency. He'd love to save me, he says, if I ever need it. I say I'm a fan of women pulling themselves up by their bootstraps. He laughs. Misogyny is one step from what he hates.

7/3/12
"Eagles are dicks!" One circles the mama and baby ducks and disappears, comes back with two more eagles as backup. "This ain't no nature show! You get up and protect those baby ducks!" 

7/2/12
Vacation starts and the world fades. I forget the internet exists.

7/1/12

I love it when people show up at my door without warning. Like a little surprise party in a messy apartment with no food and people who you aren't really sure you want to see. It's great fun, feeling trapped and assaulted in your home with no way out and unable to kick them the one hundred miles home.