It's funny how my initial reaction to any bad feeling is to hit something. It's sad that that is the only reaction I will allow. I am seriously setting myself up for some major bad shit.

This movie feeling (or, for you fucking smart people who like multi-syllabic words and shit, disassociation) has been with me for the past week. My teeth hurt from clenching them too much.

This isn't good, I think.

But fuck that! Right, guys? YEAH.

The meeting with the play dude went surprisingly well. I stood up for my script and he got very excited. Ideas were thrown around, thrown out, thrown in, lines scratched, lines written, my heart was actually beating for the first time in, like, forever and he said "You're good." Damn.

I actually felt like I was Doing Something. And I loved every fucking second.

So the play dude is OK. Weird and spacey, but what the fuck am I, right? I will even forgive his unfortunate hair.

Oh, and the other playwright? Oh my god. Beautiful and brilliant. He came in as I was reading the very last lines of my script and you know how some people just walk like they're cool, but not like the Fonz or anything. Just...cool. I dunno.

Then he read his script.

If Henry Miller listened to a lot of Bad Religion, he would write like that. Yeah.

I need to stop with the gushing. It's so unbecoming.

I also got offered a job at the theatre company. I wouldn't be needed until the fall, but you can bet your ass I'm accepting. I'll move to that city (which is the kind of place where I don't need a map to navigate and I just feel right when walking the streets) and work in theatre and of course, I'll still keep my job at the library. I love my job at the library. Even when old ladies are so grateful for my helpfulness, they grasp my hand with all the bruises. I love that, too.

Wow. Look at that shit. I'm actually thinking about the future and not freaking out that I'll fail. Killer.

And, hey, if you've got nothing to do on the 21st at 7pm, come see the show. I'll hook you up. Maybe even slip you a little tongue between plays. I know you like it dirty, too.

Oh, wait. Before I forget. I've decided that I'm not going to be reading my script. Someone else can do that. I talk like I've been snorting coke for the past 72 hours while shoving pot brownies into my mouth and manage to have about three different accents all at once. It'll just be wrong. Plus, there's going to be a talk-back session afterwards and I need to save my guts for that.

I am not a wimp. Your mom's a wimp. Seriously, dude.

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