Yesterday was the last day of classes. I'm not calling anything finished yet. It's not over until the end of finals and I've handed in that last blue book. I learned that the hard way last time. One semester lost turned into a year that way.
And today... today I did nothing. All day. I've had do-nothing days in the past, but they've always been full of a nagging sort of anxiety, the knowledge that I'd still some assignment waiting for me after my little day off; that there was something I could be working on now and was just too lazy to focus on. None of that today. I sat in bed, watched a shit ton of "Lie to Me" on Netflix, and went for a drive. I love "Lie to Me" because A) that's the kind of shit we just finished studying in my Political Psychology class, and B) I'm mad good at detecting micro-expressions. I solve the cases and know who's telling the truth and who isn't way before the plot unfolds. Yeah, I'm tooting my own horn here. It's my day off. I do what I want.
I've been sick for the better half of this week. Immediately after the show closed (we're talking Monday morning), I developed a horrid sore throat and cough. No, it wasn't anything I did onstage. It was my body entering the second stage of the stress response. During times of severe physical stress, your body expends all of its energy trying to keep you looking and feeling normal. Once that threat (the stress) is gone, it completely collapses. It's exhausted -- not just from the stress itself, but from the added stress of masking any physical duress. So I lost my voice about 16 hours after curtain, I ran a fever, and I was in agony until I finally decided to bite the bullet and get some NyQuil. I wasn't sleeping, and that was only making me sicker. Even if my liver isn't in the best of shape, a few days of Vick's can't hurt that much. So I DayQuil'd and NyQuil'd that shit until -- well, really, today's the first day I haven't felt the need to take it. My voice returned a bit yesterday, albeit huskily, and today it's almost completely back to normal and my throat doesn't hurt at all. My nose is a little runny. I'm debating as to whether or not I should take more Nyq tonight. I don't need it. But it would feel good. (This has happened ever since grade school: I take ill, develop a mild addiction to OTC sedatives, and quit with some reluctance later when I can afford to re-train my body to fall asleep on its own.)
I need a new laptop. Desperately. This one is falling apart like mad. It's already crashed once (remember that episode last summer?), sometimes it randomly goes to sleep and won't wake up until I unplug the charger, take out the battery, and re-install it, the audio doesn't work unless there are headphones plugged in (and yes, I've tried all the typical are-you-sure-you're-not-just-an-idiot things by dicking around with my system preferences), the little mouse clicker-thingy doesn't know it's being clicked sometimes and at others it thinks it's being clicked when it isn't. Very aggravating. The worst part is that my screen is incredibly moody, as in, if I tilt it past a certain angle it goes dark. And that angle changes every time I re-open the computer. I also have to open it very slowly; it's like boiling a frog. If I swing the screen open it goes dark and stays dark until I close it again and slowly creak it open, tilting and tilting as far as I can go -- do I want to take a gamble and push it to 90 degrees? Let's try this... slowwwwly... FUCK I lost it. Time to shut it and re-open. Come on... more... more... FUCK DAMN IT NOT AGAIN. Okay. Open... slowly... slowwwwwwwwly...
You get the picture.
Anyway, I can't summon up the balls to tell my paternal unit I need a new one. They're so expensive and I feel incredibly guilty after ALLLLLL the money I'm bleeding them for.
Still, here I am, with a continually open tab on the apple page so that I can drool over a 13-inch $1100 Macbook Pro. I'm not unreasonable. It's the second-cheapest Macbook model they have in stock (the first is only a couple hundred dollars less and it's much lower quality; I'd probably only keep it for a few years and have to replace it again like this one. The Pro is top-of-the-line. It's an investment. Do want).
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
One Day More
One more performance of this dumb fucking play I hate. One more.
Ordinarily when I finish a show or wrap a film, I feel a strange sense of emptiness inside. There's a well-known "post-show slump" that many actors talk about. This will be the first acting project I've done whose ending brings with it not a sense of loss -- only relief.
THANK GOD IT'S GOING TO BE OVER IN JUST A FEW HOURS.
Before this fucking play I hate, I never fully understood what people meant when they talked about someone or something "bringing out the worst in them." I knew what it meant on an intellectual level, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure it was possible in reality. I'd never felt that fully; I'd never witnessed that fully. I guess I could say that my eating disorder brings out the worst in me, except it doesn't completely. It brings out some of the best in me as well. My dedication. A twisted version of my incredible ambition and tenacity. My work ethic; my analytical side. I'm not saying there aren't many less destructive things that could do the same and not also bring out some of the worst in me, but that's another thing -- the eating disorder also quells a lot of the worst in me. It keeps the worst from being too noticeable.
The play was a different story. It brought out the worst in me and buried the best from the very beginning, and I'm ashamed of it. I hate the person I allowed this play to make me. (Note that I take responsibility for becoming said person. No one put a gun to my head and told me to be such a brat that I couldn't stand to hear myself think.)
My negativity has soared to new heights. I hate everything and it's no longer charming; it's grating. A certain level of misanthropy, when played right, can be endearing. Think of Dr. House or... fuck, I don't know, Rat in "Pearls Before Swine." Think Jeff in "Community." Now turn that up to eleven and it's not so refreshing anymore. I brood like I'm the second coming of Hamlet. My smiles have turned into grimaces. My laughs have become sardonic and hollow. I take an attitude with everyone. I've found it impossible to conceal my eye rolls or let slip snarky quips that reveal my deep-seated loathing for everything about this play. They come out before I know they've slipped past the security checkpoint in my brain. This dressing room has been hijacked by AJ's bitterness. I radiate negativity from my pores. All I do is complain. I'm even complaining right now. I can't stop complaining about how much I complain. Me me me me. My life my life my life my life. My misery.
None of this is an exaggeration. I'm a vain, sarcastic, bratty, ungrateful, negative, spiteful, hateful, ornery, cold, aloof, narcissistic bitch. With no mischievous, playful undercurrent to my rancor; no secret compassion behind my contempt. It's all ugliness. It isn't cute and it isn't clever. It isn't funny; it's draining to those around me and I fucking hate myself for it.
I hope this dies with the play and I can get back to ruining my own life in peace without becoming a toxic drain on humanity.
Ordinarily when I finish a show or wrap a film, I feel a strange sense of emptiness inside. There's a well-known "post-show slump" that many actors talk about. This will be the first acting project I've done whose ending brings with it not a sense of loss -- only relief.
THANK GOD IT'S GOING TO BE OVER IN JUST A FEW HOURS.
Before this fucking play I hate, I never fully understood what people meant when they talked about someone or something "bringing out the worst in them." I knew what it meant on an intellectual level, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure it was possible in reality. I'd never felt that fully; I'd never witnessed that fully. I guess I could say that my eating disorder brings out the worst in me, except it doesn't completely. It brings out some of the best in me as well. My dedication. A twisted version of my incredible ambition and tenacity. My work ethic; my analytical side. I'm not saying there aren't many less destructive things that could do the same and not also bring out some of the worst in me, but that's another thing -- the eating disorder also quells a lot of the worst in me. It keeps the worst from being too noticeable.
The play was a different story. It brought out the worst in me and buried the best from the very beginning, and I'm ashamed of it. I hate the person I allowed this play to make me. (Note that I take responsibility for becoming said person. No one put a gun to my head and told me to be such a brat that I couldn't stand to hear myself think.)
My negativity has soared to new heights. I hate everything and it's no longer charming; it's grating. A certain level of misanthropy, when played right, can be endearing. Think of Dr. House or... fuck, I don't know, Rat in "Pearls Before Swine." Think Jeff in "Community." Now turn that up to eleven and it's not so refreshing anymore. I brood like I'm the second coming of Hamlet. My smiles have turned into grimaces. My laughs have become sardonic and hollow. I take an attitude with everyone. I've found it impossible to conceal my eye rolls or let slip snarky quips that reveal my deep-seated loathing for everything about this play. They come out before I know they've slipped past the security checkpoint in my brain. This dressing room has been hijacked by AJ's bitterness. I radiate negativity from my pores. All I do is complain. I'm even complaining right now. I can't stop complaining about how much I complain. Me me me me. My life my life my life my life. My misery.
None of this is an exaggeration. I'm a vain, sarcastic, bratty, ungrateful, negative, spiteful, hateful, ornery, cold, aloof, narcissistic bitch. With no mischievous, playful undercurrent to my rancor; no secret compassion behind my contempt. It's all ugliness. It isn't cute and it isn't clever. It isn't funny; it's draining to those around me and I fucking hate myself for it.
I hope this dies with the play and I can get back to ruining my own life in peace without becoming a toxic drain on humanity.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
WTF Craving.
I've been clean almost two years; this should not be happening.
I'm physically craving coke like a motherfucker.
My apartment smells like blow. Not my room itself, but the hallways, and my room is acquiring just a sense of that residual hallway odour. Never let anyone tell you cocaine doesn't have a smell. It does. It's a caustic, burning, chemical dump scent. You wouldn't notice it unless you'd done it. But it's fucking TRIGGERING as all hell.
I've gotten a whiff of coke-like smells before, but it's usually been just in passing. And it's rarely made me want it this bad. My body wants blow. I'm fidgeting; I try to distract myself and THAT FUCKING SMELL creeps back into my consciousness and I start thinking about cutting lines and rolling bills and having energy again, which is especially necessary because I'm getting ready to head to my second 12-hour rehearsal in a row (yes, you read that right. 12 hours).
Oh God I want coke. I never considered myself an addict but DAMN this craving is strong. After almost two fucking years. I can't keep still. I can't focus. Coke coke coke coke coke. I waaaaaaaant cokkkkkkkkkkke. I can't stop thinking about it. I wish I had some air freshener. I've got the window open and the fan going. Hopefully it'll wear away soon. Given how fatigued I am, it's like the smell is taunting me. Just a little bit and you can make it through rehearsal, totally present, totally open, no problem. Fuck you cocaine.
I have a headache. I want to go back to bed. I can't. I have to go to fucking rehearsal in half an hour and I'm nowhere near dressed.
At least it doesn't smell like blow in the theatre.
I'm physically craving coke like a motherfucker.
My apartment smells like blow. Not my room itself, but the hallways, and my room is acquiring just a sense of that residual hallway odour. Never let anyone tell you cocaine doesn't have a smell. It does. It's a caustic, burning, chemical dump scent. You wouldn't notice it unless you'd done it. But it's fucking TRIGGERING as all hell.
I've gotten a whiff of coke-like smells before, but it's usually been just in passing. And it's rarely made me want it this bad. My body wants blow. I'm fidgeting; I try to distract myself and THAT FUCKING SMELL creeps back into my consciousness and I start thinking about cutting lines and rolling bills and having energy again, which is especially necessary because I'm getting ready to head to my second 12-hour rehearsal in a row (yes, you read that right. 12 hours).
Oh God I want coke. I never considered myself an addict but DAMN this craving is strong. After almost two fucking years. I can't keep still. I can't focus. Coke coke coke coke coke. I waaaaaaaant cokkkkkkkkkkke. I can't stop thinking about it. I wish I had some air freshener. I've got the window open and the fan going. Hopefully it'll wear away soon. Given how fatigued I am, it's like the smell is taunting me. Just a little bit and you can make it through rehearsal, totally present, totally open, no problem. Fuck you cocaine.
I have a headache. I want to go back to bed. I can't. I have to go to fucking rehearsal in half an hour and I'm nowhere near dressed.
At least it doesn't smell like blow in the theatre.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Getting On And Getting On
I have an ally in my hatred.
C. (we'll just go by his first initial) transferred into the sophomore class this year, and he's probably the only student whose acting consistently floors me. He loves the same things I love: analyzing Shakespeare to look for hidden stage and emotional directions, top-shelf alcohol (just because the ED won't let me drink doesn't mean I don't miss it terribly), intellectual elitism, and cute boys. He also hates the same things I hate: the dean of the school of theatre, the director of this fucking play I hate, and the current environment surrounding this fucking play I hate. And, like me, he feels a need to keep all of this under wraps. Because "nobody else gets it, AJ."
"Well of course not; they're drinking the Kool-Aid."
I first discovered that he may not have been the biggest fan of our director a few weeks ago, when he made an aside comment about how she wasn't staging a particular scene in the way Brecht would have wanted. Not that "the way Brecht would have wanted" would have been more agreeable, in my opinion, but C. was right. He murmured something to me about her not achieving the alienation effect (also known as the V Effect), and I whispered back to him, "she doesn't really care about the alienation effect or serving Brecht or any of that. What she cares about is conveying her own political opinions. And the second either Brecht or epic theatre or the V Effect becomes incompatible with forcing her own biases down the audience's throat, she'll ignore the former and carry on with the latter and nobody fucking says anything."
I hadn't intended for my diatribe to be so scathing or hearty, but this contempt had been festering, unvoiced, within me for so long that I couldn't help myself. Besides, the more I spoke, the more C. continued to nod his head in vigourous agreement.
"Well, and she keeps saying, 'it's all about the ideas.' You read the introduction to this play by David Hare; it says Brecht wasn't about the ideas AT ALL. It's the opposite. It's about the action. Action OVER ideas, it says that."
"She doesn't care, C. She either doesn't know or doesn't care. And if she did know, which I'm sure she does, because she's read so much on him, she wouldn't care anyway."
C. continued to bob his head up and down as we enthusiastically denounced her directing philosophy. I was so elated to have found such an unexpected ally, and someone who wasn't afraid to complain because it might foster an "unhealthy mentality." If you want to grouse, fucking grouse, man. Commiserating is the only thing that keeps you sane sometimes. I should know.
I tested the waters with C. a bit. I still wasn't sure how deep his loathing was for the director; whether or not he was just having a rough week and decided to take it out on some minor annoyance about the alienation effect. No. As I soon learned, C. was in his disdain for the long haul. Aware that he now had a confidant in me, he took to exchanging blank glances with me every time Herr Direktor said something particularly infuriating. No eye rolls. No arched brows. We had to be more subtle than that. One breath of eye contact was enough. Sometimes one of us was lucky enough to be standing behind her, and we could convey our fury facially.
"I never knew you hated her," he gushed to me the other night. "You always seemed so eager and affectionate. But you didn't overplay it."
"Dude, I felt the same thing about you! I thought you were one of her disciples!"
C. grimaced. "Nooooo."
Anyway, lately we've really been beginning to bond. He was thrilled when I told him I was staying here for the majority of the summer ("we're going to hang out, right?"), and today in acting class, after his scene partner unexpectedly burst into tears because "I just don't feel 'in the moment'; I just feel like I'm reciting lines," C. shot me another glance. It was a note the student (who was doing a perfectly lovely job, by the way) had been given the night before, in a very public and humiliating directorial session. During break I zoomed over to him.
"That is what I like to call the Z Effect," I said, using the last initial of Herr Direktor. "It happened to me Freshman year; I lived that shit, she had my class reduced to tears constantly, but you never say, 'it's because of her.' You say, 'it's because of me; I'm not thinking what she says I'm supposed to be thinking; I'm not approaching this the way she says I'm supposed to be approaching it; I'm not feeling what she says I'm supposed to be thinking; the only way out is to judge myself harder than she judges me.' And where are you living? In your head, C., you're living in your head and acting isn't fun anymore and she has crushed your healthy mentality and turned you into a fucking wreck, and you only get worse from there."
"Yep. Yep yep yep yep yep." C. flipped through his notebook. "Do you want to see the notes I took last night?" He turned a page to face me and showed me a series of bullet points, all of which read something along the lines of, this woman is ridiculous and here's why. Best of all, at the very top of the page he had scrawled, "THIS IS A TOXIC ENVIRONMENT."
Toxic. I'd used the word before. It described the circumstances perfectly.
"She's bitching about how the cast is developing a negative mentality, whatever the fuck that even means," he went on, "and she's right. But it's - because - of- her."
I was as happy as I was angry. A very odd combination, if you've never felt it. But really beautiful. Like spiced rum, or bourbon: so fiery and biting, yet sweet and warm at the same time. You feel it burning through your core and it's marvellous.
"We need to get together for cocktails soon," he implored. "Like Friday."
"I like the way you think," I said.
Man, if that boy were straight... People have "gay crushes," right? Why can't gay people have straight crushes? Like, "I might go straight for a night with so-and-so."
I'm only joking. Kind of.
C. (we'll just go by his first initial) transferred into the sophomore class this year, and he's probably the only student whose acting consistently floors me. He loves the same things I love: analyzing Shakespeare to look for hidden stage and emotional directions, top-shelf alcohol (just because the ED won't let me drink doesn't mean I don't miss it terribly), intellectual elitism, and cute boys. He also hates the same things I hate: the dean of the school of theatre, the director of this fucking play I hate, and the current environment surrounding this fucking play I hate. And, like me, he feels a need to keep all of this under wraps. Because "nobody else gets it, AJ."
"Well of course not; they're drinking the Kool-Aid."
I first discovered that he may not have been the biggest fan of our director a few weeks ago, when he made an aside comment about how she wasn't staging a particular scene in the way Brecht would have wanted. Not that "the way Brecht would have wanted" would have been more agreeable, in my opinion, but C. was right. He murmured something to me about her not achieving the alienation effect (also known as the V Effect), and I whispered back to him, "she doesn't really care about the alienation effect or serving Brecht or any of that. What she cares about is conveying her own political opinions. And the second either Brecht or epic theatre or the V Effect becomes incompatible with forcing her own biases down the audience's throat, she'll ignore the former and carry on with the latter and nobody fucking says anything."
I hadn't intended for my diatribe to be so scathing or hearty, but this contempt had been festering, unvoiced, within me for so long that I couldn't help myself. Besides, the more I spoke, the more C. continued to nod his head in vigourous agreement.
"Well, and she keeps saying, 'it's all about the ideas.' You read the introduction to this play by David Hare; it says Brecht wasn't about the ideas AT ALL. It's the opposite. It's about the action. Action OVER ideas, it says that."
"She doesn't care, C. She either doesn't know or doesn't care. And if she did know, which I'm sure she does, because she's read so much on him, she wouldn't care anyway."
C. continued to bob his head up and down as we enthusiastically denounced her directing philosophy. I was so elated to have found such an unexpected ally, and someone who wasn't afraid to complain because it might foster an "unhealthy mentality." If you want to grouse, fucking grouse, man. Commiserating is the only thing that keeps you sane sometimes. I should know.
I tested the waters with C. a bit. I still wasn't sure how deep his loathing was for the director; whether or not he was just having a rough week and decided to take it out on some minor annoyance about the alienation effect. No. As I soon learned, C. was in his disdain for the long haul. Aware that he now had a confidant in me, he took to exchanging blank glances with me every time Herr Direktor said something particularly infuriating. No eye rolls. No arched brows. We had to be more subtle than that. One breath of eye contact was enough. Sometimes one of us was lucky enough to be standing behind her, and we could convey our fury facially.
"I never knew you hated her," he gushed to me the other night. "You always seemed so eager and affectionate. But you didn't overplay it."
"Dude, I felt the same thing about you! I thought you were one of her disciples!"
C. grimaced. "Nooooo."
Anyway, lately we've really been beginning to bond. He was thrilled when I told him I was staying here for the majority of the summer ("we're going to hang out, right?"), and today in acting class, after his scene partner unexpectedly burst into tears because "I just don't feel 'in the moment'; I just feel like I'm reciting lines," C. shot me another glance. It was a note the student (who was doing a perfectly lovely job, by the way) had been given the night before, in a very public and humiliating directorial session. During break I zoomed over to him.
"That is what I like to call the Z Effect," I said, using the last initial of Herr Direktor. "It happened to me Freshman year; I lived that shit, she had my class reduced to tears constantly, but you never say, 'it's because of her.' You say, 'it's because of me; I'm not thinking what she says I'm supposed to be thinking; I'm not approaching this the way she says I'm supposed to be approaching it; I'm not feeling what she says I'm supposed to be thinking; the only way out is to judge myself harder than she judges me.' And where are you living? In your head, C., you're living in your head and acting isn't fun anymore and she has crushed your healthy mentality and turned you into a fucking wreck, and you only get worse from there."
"Yep. Yep yep yep yep yep." C. flipped through his notebook. "Do you want to see the notes I took last night?" He turned a page to face me and showed me a series of bullet points, all of which read something along the lines of, this woman is ridiculous and here's why. Best of all, at the very top of the page he had scrawled, "THIS IS A TOXIC ENVIRONMENT."
Toxic. I'd used the word before. It described the circumstances perfectly.
"She's bitching about how the cast is developing a negative mentality, whatever the fuck that even means," he went on, "and she's right. But it's - because - of- her."
I was as happy as I was angry. A very odd combination, if you've never felt it. But really beautiful. Like spiced rum, or bourbon: so fiery and biting, yet sweet and warm at the same time. You feel it burning through your core and it's marvellous.
"We need to get together for cocktails soon," he implored. "Like Friday."
"I like the way you think," I said.
Man, if that boy were straight... People have "gay crushes," right? Why can't gay people have straight crushes? Like, "I might go straight for a night with so-and-so."
I'm only joking. Kind of.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Outside the Dawn is Breaking, But Inside the Dark I'm Aching to Be Free
I don't have much new to say, but figured I might post an update since I haven't done so in a while.
I hate Motherfucking Courage And Her Sophomores. Everyone else is so FUCKING excited and chipper about it and I'm sick of pretending like I am, too. I hate this play and I hate this playwright and I hate working with this director and I hate what it means that I'm in this play. The only thing I don't hate is my character, which is good. And I hate that I complain all the time. I hate that I'm so negative, but at least I'm feeling something. Hate. Fury. Resentment.
It's about 4 hours of rehearsal every night at this stage. Which sucks not only for the reasons listed above, but also because my starved state only allows me a few "good" hours of peak functioning per day, and that window of time does not occur at night. You can pretty much guarantee that I'll be useless to humanity after 8PM. What little glucose I've provided my body that day has long since been depleted, the sputtering caffeine high completely fades, and after that I'm running on spite. So when you're working me from 6-10, prepare to be disappointed.
I usually get one nice energy spurt in the morning (probably because of being nurtured by sleep), which dies down not more than an hour after any greater-than-minimal expenditure of energy. I get another much briefer one some time in the afternoon, not after 5. By the way, I'm defining "energy spurt" as "window of time during which I feel capable of functioning like a normal person and not like I'm about to crash." Yes, at all other times, I feel like I'm about to crash. This is not an exaggeration.
Anyway... more bitterness. I have prohibited my parents from coming to see this dumb fucking play I hate. "I'm not proud of it, it isn't good from an objective standpoint, and I don't want you watching me do something that made me miserable," I said. It's just as well; they'll save money and I won't have to think of an excuse not to spend a meal with them while they're in town.
Honestly, this is the first time working on a show/film/set has ever been anything aside from fun or enjoyable. Seriously. Before, I even took pleasure in the most "annoying" or "banal" elements of my work -- waiting around on set for my cue; having to do multiple takes of the same two lines over and over and over, from this angle, and then from this angle; reshoots; technical difficulties; rushing at the last minute; idling in the green room reading a magazine while the newer actors, determined to prove their dedication to artistry, try to achieve a trance-like state in an attempt to "get into character." But now? It's torture. It's a chore, and I hate that something I typically love is now causing me so much pain. It feels unnatural and twisted. My passion has become adulterated.
And that, that feeling of something -- that once brought me so much joy in spite of everything else -- being bastardized and distorted... that's probably the most painful part of it all.
I hate Motherfucking Courage And Her Sophomores. Everyone else is so FUCKING excited and chipper about it and I'm sick of pretending like I am, too. I hate this play and I hate this playwright and I hate working with this director and I hate what it means that I'm in this play. The only thing I don't hate is my character, which is good. And I hate that I complain all the time. I hate that I'm so negative, but at least I'm feeling something. Hate. Fury. Resentment.
It's about 4 hours of rehearsal every night at this stage. Which sucks not only for the reasons listed above, but also because my starved state only allows me a few "good" hours of peak functioning per day, and that window of time does not occur at night. You can pretty much guarantee that I'll be useless to humanity after 8PM. What little glucose I've provided my body that day has long since been depleted, the sputtering caffeine high completely fades, and after that I'm running on spite. So when you're working me from 6-10, prepare to be disappointed.
I usually get one nice energy spurt in the morning (probably because of being nurtured by sleep), which dies down not more than an hour after any greater-than-minimal expenditure of energy. I get another much briefer one some time in the afternoon, not after 5. By the way, I'm defining "energy spurt" as "window of time during which I feel capable of functioning like a normal person and not like I'm about to crash." Yes, at all other times, I feel like I'm about to crash. This is not an exaggeration.
Anyway... more bitterness. I have prohibited my parents from coming to see this dumb fucking play I hate. "I'm not proud of it, it isn't good from an objective standpoint, and I don't want you watching me do something that made me miserable," I said. It's just as well; they'll save money and I won't have to think of an excuse not to spend a meal with them while they're in town.
Honestly, this is the first time working on a show/film/set has ever been anything aside from fun or enjoyable. Seriously. Before, I even took pleasure in the most "annoying" or "banal" elements of my work -- waiting around on set for my cue; having to do multiple takes of the same two lines over and over and over, from this angle, and then from this angle; reshoots; technical difficulties; rushing at the last minute; idling in the green room reading a magazine while the newer actors, determined to prove their dedication to artistry, try to achieve a trance-like state in an attempt to "get into character." But now? It's torture. It's a chore, and I hate that something I typically love is now causing me so much pain. It feels unnatural and twisted. My passion has become adulterated.
And that, that feeling of something -- that once brought me so much joy in spite of everything else -- being bastardized and distorted... that's probably the most painful part of it all.
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