As a woman who sees re-making her bed in the morning as rather pointless, re-filing strikes me as a particularly Sysiphutic activity.

Anyone for a copy of our 1990 Letter of Incumbency? Anyone?

Today I came in and opened the blinds with a flourish, half-expecting something amazing to pop into the view from my window. Nope. Same old ghetto. A bit of me floated out the window this morning and peeked back in at myself in my office, and I got so sad.

It is a pretty view, and a gorgeous day, and I'm glad that I work in this neighborhood. While it's not be the most savory area in the world, it is definitely a neighborhood in the traditional sense, where people know each other and say "hello" to each other on the streets, sit on their front porches in good weather chat and watch their kids play in the sand. That doesn't happen downtown, where everyone leads their own exclusive little lives.

Someone brought in a troughload of Chinese take-out and laid it out on the table in the break-room for anyone to partake. Everyone's like, "You should try it. You still a vegetarian? Because this is really good." As if that specific order of generic Chinese take-out marked a miraculous turning point in the world of generic Chinese take-out. Looked like the same neon pink sweet and sour chicken to me.

I sound like a character from a Douglas Coupland novel ... nothing is authentic, everything is dusty and unimportant. I've come to notice, through going back through my diary, that whenever I get gloomy like this, I start my period a couple of days later. Hey, that would explain not only my mood swings, but the ridiculous number of tootsie rolls I've consumed today. Because of my shitty grasp on linear time, I'd never have made the connection if I hadn't been writing this journal. Luckily, my uteris apparently reads my diary and has a fine sense of linear timehas been paying attention to my schedule. Gold star, Uteris.

I personify my uteris quite often, don't I? That's odd.

Had my acting class last night. I love that class, but find in imminently discouraging that all my classmates are mentioning auditions and theatres and agents and stuff, and no, not all of them are actuall working actors, but I'm so out of touch and ignorant and I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO START! I have absolutely no working clue how to be a professional artist. Help?

I'm in a show now, yes... but I'm dying to do something I can really get my hands on. I have no idea how to realize my potential, or what that potential truly is. Blah, I say. BLAH!

Acting class ... I think I have a Brad fetish. Yes, I'm aware that a "brad" is a type of nail. That's not what I mean, I do not get off on crucifixion.

I don't think I've ever met a Brad that I haven't had a bit of a crush on.

Brad P., a college friend, lead singer of a really good shoegazey kind of band. A very innocent crush, because anyone attracted to men would develop a bit of a crush on Brad P. Tall, built, blonde, and funky, disgustingly good-looking in a sweet, goofy way, disgustingly talented and smart and nice. So nice. And ridiculous, and hilarious. I was in an improv show with him, he played Apollo and wore a gold loincloth, and carried it off with a sublime sense of irony. He spent Easter at my house our freshman year, and was so kind with my crazy, drunk, uncle Tom, the one that everyone else (except me) is so mean to.

Brad T. apprenticed with me at a theatre in Vermont the summer of 2000. Brilliant, intense, Gary Senise-y kind of actor... short and compact with crazy red hair and crazy green eyes. I played his mom in a Tennessee Williams one-act. His fucking cancer-ridden, asexual MOM. Typical. Chaos follows Brad T. wherever he goes. On the way to Vermont from Texas, he totalled his car and had to stop for a few days in Buttfuck, West Virginia to rustle up enough money to complete his trip. Later that summer, he was driving to the apprentice house from the theatre, and his driver-side car window spontaneously combusted, and he had to tape a garbage bag over the opening for the rest of the summer. I worked at the same theatre the following summer, and he drove from New York to visit. On the way, he was involved in another accident and drove up to the theatre with his bumper tied to his car with bunjee chords.

Brad T2 was a pudgy, baby-faced boy in my acting class this past winter. He had to drop out because of professional conflicts, but man, was he cute.

And now, there's Brad F ... a tall, brawny, leading-man type in my current acting class. I don't usually go for that typically handsome, wry-smiling, cocksure type, but man... he laughs at my jokes and compliments me on my scenes. People who think they're hot shit really amuse me.

He thinks I'm clever. Yeah, Kelly, "clever" always gets 'em. Maybe you can play his mom.

I wish I could have a big, masculine hug right now.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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