This is my Morning Pages dump.
You aren’t supposed to let anyone read them. I’m not even supposed to read them. They are there purely for dumping purposes, like taking your morning poo — which you flush down the metaphorical toilet of — “Welp, got that out. What’s next?”
…It’s supposed to be freeing. And it is. And it’s supposed to be private.
But I decided: fuck that. For today anyhow.
…I’m exhausted and irritated and sad and embarrassed and my coffee is brewing. These things are not all related. But some are. So in the style of stream-of-consciousness, I will drink my coffee and fuck-all the rules today. Because I want to.
***
Woke up this morning with death in my mouth — left over Cajun tots coming back to haunt me. Washed my face twice but told my teeth to piss off. They will to me one-day, so: fuck ’em. God last night was horrible. Extra horrible. Will try to not focus on that right now–good fucking luck–but: whatever. Woke up thinking of a friend, and laughed. Friends are the best animals for help. During mini breakdown at intermission, when I couldn’t pull my shit together, going ghostly-motorboating actually made me laugh out loud, and prevent the torrent of black liner from streaming down my face, even further. I love that woman so much. I love all those women do damn much. This morning, it got me thinking of other funny things, which is how I segued to “Elvira’s” Stitch Box pants, and how she accidentally got her white body paint all over them, then, without thinking, automatically started brushing at them with with her hands to get it off…which only made it worse, so her ass looked like it had been mauled by a clown. And then I thought: Stitch Box, I should look that up. That’s a pretty cool gig. Because I hate clothes shopping second only to washing dishes…and she was telling me all about it…so laying here in bed I look it up, and do the profile and ya-de-ya-da, until it asks me for a pintress page to help teach them my style. Which is hilarious, because if I had style I wouldn’t be needing someone to put me together so I wouldn’t have to be bothered. So then, I started to pintress, which is also hilarious, cuz I haven’t done that shit since first signing up, and now I’m punching in things like: “fashion,” and saying stuff like “WTF?!”, so then I punch in “Classic Style” and I’m all like: “Oh. Yeah. I like that. And that. And that…” and then Audrey Hepburn shows up — like she does– and I’m like, “fuck yes!” and that gets me thinking on what I enjoy wearing when other people dress me in shows, and so I punch in “1940s style,” and I’m gold-mining like a mutherfucker…for like a whole damn hour! And then I’m like: “there, that ought to be good enough,” and then I’m like, “Well, fuck, why do I need to pay someone to do that. I just did it. Why not just go shop WITH my pintress app??” …Like this is some totally unheard of concept, and I’d basically reinvented the wheel or something– but then I remembered that still meant putting on pants, and going out, and being around people, and children, and taking my clothes off in weird smelling rooms, and putting on things that probably won’t fit me and I’ll hate. And also: I want coffee, and last night was horrible, and why does embarrassment stay with you like a shame-hangover? And I need an oil change.
Sadness.
Great, welling awful.
I’m so tired of fucking up. I’m so tired of fighting every day. Being positive is hard and horrible. Almost as bad as clothes shopping. I need to find a way to get through these final two performances. Like the pintress version of “doing” the task, but without all of the outside shitty part of being out there really doing the task. It would be super awesome if there was a performance version of shopping in your underwear. So much less intense. So many less voyeurs. And like a 100% success rate.
God.
…I just want to enjoy these last two. I just want to work hard but have it mean something and work with me, instead of against. I just want a full-run do-over, with the same people. I just want even a single performance, where I’m not shaking on stage, and constantly worried about what is coming next. I want to be at “home” again, in my home.
Broken brains are just the mutherfucking worst.
I need more coffee.
…And a breakfast truck. Why the fuck does no one have one of those?? Would make a goddamn killing…!
…Why does my auto-correct STILL say “duck?” You’d think, by ducking now, my ducking phone would duck-well know what I’m really ducking saying.
…And also: “ypu,” is not a word. It never was. So cut that shit out.
More coffee…
~D
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