a fair full of ferris wheels: I and II

And I'm here...again. It doesn't feel as bad thanks to a well-reasoned pep talk beforehand (thanks, pal, really).

But once again, I find myself questioning my previous reasons for even being here.

Why did I think it would be this easy? And why, after every time I've actually prepared, was I still not what they were looking for? And how on EARTH did I get here in the first place? How did I even get that place in Godspell when I was sixteen?

Because I don't come from the "west side," where it's normal for some kids to be put through the theatre circuit at an early age.

The department is slowly becoming my Cerberus. It's very much a love-hate relationship. I love theatre--the idea of it as an art, a craft; I love the people because they are my school of fish, I understand the passion in their eyes as much as I always hope they see it in mine. But it's draining me of time, it's draining me of money, and it's starting to drain the passion, too.

The last could always be chalked up to the assumption that if I have to work too hard for it (which I'm assumedly not), the love for it will wither, and I will lose interest. It could be that. That would be hard for me to admit--partially because it's true, and partially because it's not.

I'm again wondering what it's worth--I have a body that looks like God ran out of proportional parts, I have a voice that shakes when sung above normal speaking volume, and, I guess, I have the work ethic of a snail. There are quite a few other programs I could've gotten into, without sacrificing anything but the "fun" factor, that I would have gained much more momentum in, and, I believe, could've even excelled in. (Except for English, apparently, because I just ended the last sentence with a preposition. Oh, look, I did it again. That's the only humor you're getting tonight.) Why this one? I could just as easily spark a passion for any of those other programs.

But I can't do it. I can't turn back now. My own mother warned me of this before I started my last semester in high school: "What if you change your mind halfway through?" Well, Mom, you were right. As always. But, since I have no desire to waste any more of either of our precious dollars or years fulfilling a change of mind (and a change of heart, almost), I will see this through. In a sense, I'm kind of giving up. I'll keep moving through the swamp, but only because I don't want to go around it, because it'll take longer.

Longer.

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My hair got longer, and the measuring tape around my waist got longer. Your hair got shorter, as did any amount of attention towards me. I don't even mean those kind of intentions, but...any kind. But she's a golden child, right? She's intelligent, clever, pretty, perfectly nerdy, and she got a callback. She's also younger. So go ahead.

I thought it wouldn't take this long, but apparently, the more skin you touch, the longer it takes for the sensation to fully leave. Longer.

I need to get you out of sight, out of mind, out of earshot, out of scent...out of wingspan. Did you know that at work, three times last week, I smelled exactly what I smelled then? Skin and nicotine, hot and heavy...it literally turned my stomach over twice and tied my intestines into Sunday knots.

What. The. Fuck.

I need to go longer without thinking of you. LONGER.

Hate this. I love it and hate it. But mostly I hate it. Thankfully you're not an entire dog head, but at this point, you might as well be one-third of this vicious boss I keep chained up.

-d