No News. No writing.
One of the projectors we’re using for the show busted this week. Since Chicago is only 2 weeks away, I’ve been scrambling to get it fixed… along with a million other problems with the godforsaken show.
Yesterday, in the shower, I mistook lightening for ‘the white flash.’ I’ve been reading newspapers. Lots of them. Aside from my glee with the little “will the real Saddam please come forward” thing, I’m not taking this war very well. It makes me sad. And scared.
I didn’t get into any writing schools. So I added my resume to the site. I know it’s dumb. Fuck you. I need a job . And I can’t decide where to go. Should I stay in New York and tough it out another year, praying that my portfolio gets better and some school will give me money? Should I say FUCK IT and go to Arizona, doubling my debt? Don’t know. Don’t know… The refrigerator is buzzing really loud.
Q: Why are refrigerators that loud?
A: It takes a lot of energy to keep things fresh.
It’s FINALLY spring here. Blue turns black a little later each day. This makes me happy. It was 50 degrees today. I’m happy. Really. I am.
Q: Why is spring so good?
A: Two words: humping squirrels.
It’s Friday night. I just got out of rehearsals and I’m tired. Just can’t seem to get to sleep. Alex is at some rock ‘n roll show. I say the ’n instead of and because I’m irritated.
Q: Can music save you from depression?
A: Yes and no. The Old 97’s had me dancing around the apartment at 10pm. (I really WAS the happy genius of my household.) Tom Waits made me wish I liked whiskey.
Oh yeah. My fingers are falling off. No really. The skin on my fingertips has dried and flaked off. It hurts to touch anything. Even the cats. I keep thinking that it’s a pretty interesting topic for a poem. I mean, the pain feels kind of poetic. But after giving it a little thought, I decided that the only reason my hands look like this is because I’ve been doing too many dishes. Me. Doing dishes… Don’t laugh. Since this whole ‘living with the boyfriend’ thing, I’ve found myself barefoot beside the stove on several occasions. Don’t laugh.
Q: Is it worse to feel depressed or see yourself depressed from a distance?
A: That’s a stupid question.