Last night I got fucked up
on the Recommended Adult Dose of Nyquil and passed out and the hour hand went around the clock once, twice, ten times. It was only supposed to go around eight, because by the time it had gone around nine-and-a-quarter I was supposed to be in an uncomfortable desk a mile or so away. But I figured, I'm sick, I've earned it. So I called my stepmom, got her to call me in sick, then closed my eyes and let that clock spin, baby. I ended up getting out of bed around two, and showed up at school around three-thirty, to see if there was any last-minute crew stuff to do. There wasn't, but I hung out 'till six anyway.
I was sitting in the boy's makeup room bathroom, shooting the shit (the rhetorical kind, not the literal) while people were getting ready for dress rehearsal. Matt asked if I wanted some makeup to put on just 'cause. Smartass. He was right though. I guess my presence smacked of desperation...I'm used to looking in the mirror, ceding my masculinity, and slathering on some foundation, then tromping off beneath the lights for a couple hours and going home late. Am I bitter that I don't get to do that this time? No, not really. Let other people have the chance, I say. But just because you don't begrudge someone the opportunity to do something doesn't mean you don't miss doing it yourself.
This has been humbling, not being in a show. Building the set for once instead of just taking it for granted. Cleaning paint rollers 'till my fingers are black and not being able to think of something I'd rather be doing. The phrase what it's all about
comes to mind. I know I have a tendency to over-romanticize this whole high-school-theatre thing, but when something's so romantic to begin with, paint-rollers and all, it's not hard to push it over that line.
Musical auditions are at the end of this month. Graduation is in May. Then I get to go do this shit for real. Sometimes I think that hour hand goes around too fast.
You owe it to yourself to read everything Dan the Goose has written in the past week