It's been a mixed bag, to say the least.
*
ACADEMIC UPDATE:
I reached a "compromise," of sorts, with the school of theatre regarding my class standing -- and when I say "compromise," I mean, "I've been provided with a very dim light at the end of a very long, sewage-infested tunnel." In short, I have to stay with the sophomore class but get to participate in the junior class's shows.
This is not a compromise. It's a consolation prize.
^Aaaand that should be an Eminem lyric. I can hear it now.
First of all, it's not like the sophomore curriculum is NEW to me. In fact, most of what we're doing for the first semester I could recite to you verbatim. The professors know this. They look at me apologetically with every assignment and tangent embarked upon. They like me. They say they're glad I'm back and ask me how I'm feeling. I half-smile, half-grimace and tell them, "well, it's difficult having to repeat a year. But it's good to see you again." Nearly every day this happens.
Secondly, I've elected to become quite a brat about the whole thing. I've decided I hate all the sophomores because they aren't MY classmates. They will never be my classmates. I might have classes with them, and I might do scenes with them, but they are neither friends nor partners. They're just talented kids. (Answer me: who's really the "kid" in this scenario?) I'm nice to their faces. I say hi and beam at them when I pass them in the hall. I laugh at their immature jokes and I clap for them when they do monologues and though I don't initiate conversations, I cheerfully participate in them. In short, I hate them very professionally. This is my work; just because I've determined to loathe all these children doesn't mean I have to do so at the expense of my own artistic exploration or creative process. I'm just not going to be their friend.
Slowly, I think, my professors will begin to discover this. One of them is already sort of catching on to it. He knows me well and knows I'm not a shy girl. When I sit in the corner during discussions and watch silently as they all run lines from Henry V, he knows I'm not biding my time until I'm socially accepted by this new group. He knows I'm stewing.
I'm beyond furious with this situation. I've reached points where I've been so mad that I cried. I told everyone I was doing some intense character work for a scene. They believed me. I love gullible actors.
*
AUDITION UPDATE:
My one saving grace could be getting cast in Cabaret. I auditioned tonight; the entire process was a total mindfuck. Reading men is easier than reading the director of this show. I finished my song (I thought I sounded really good) and my monologue (not sure how I sounded, but I was having what the pretentious assholes in this industry would refer to as a "real experience" while I was doing it, so that's good), the formal audition was thus concluded -- and the director hugged me on my way out.
She fucking hugged me.
This director does not hug. She's a militant lesbian. I can dig that she's decided she likes me; that's great. That makes my life easier. And I've spent the past week "confiding" in her, making her feel all supportive and helpful and shit, which she also really loves. (I say "confiding" with quotation marks, because at this point in my life there really isn't a non-manipulative bone in my body.) As a result, this hard-ass, combat-boot wearing dom has hugged me more times over the past five days than my softie Mormon therapist did during four months of rehab. But after an audition? I don't know what to make of that. It could either mean, "I'm so sorry you're not getting cast, honey, but take it easy and you're still a good actress," or "I'm so proud you nailed this because I was totally pulling for you." Then she said my monologue was great.
Another thing about this womYn: she spent my freshman year making me and the rest of my (REAL) classmates feel totally inadequate. Even when we did a scene well it was wrong somehow. We could have "made it mean more", or done it with less "false naturalism." I think I heard her give maybe five compliments total. Usually, they were brief, and always, she really meant them. So I DO know that she actually thought my monologue was great. And not only did she think my monologue was great, but she thought it was so great that it actually incited her to voice this sentiment. The rub comes when I begin to wonder if part of the reason she felt so compelled to tell me how honestly great my monologue was, had to do with the fact that she knew I wouldn't be cast and wanted me to know that I really had done a lovely job -- you know, to soften the blow.
Lastly, I hung around a bit after I'd finished my audition. My inner Sherlock Holmes left the room and hovered just around the corner to time how long it took them between letting me out and calling the next person in.
It took them a long time.
With the previous three auditions I'd witnessed, the entire process had been very in-and-out: actor is called in, time elapses, actor comes out, fifteen to twenty seconds pass -- if that -- and the next actor is called in.
With mine, it was more than a minute before they came out to get the next actor.
I'm more inclined to think this is a good sign than a bad one, but you never know. The pause is due to deliberation; the director/musical director either both quickly say it's a definitive no and they summon the next candidate, or one says "I'd like to see more of him/her because _____" and the other agrees or disagrees and they might argue until they finally come to a consensus and they summon the next candidate, or one says "I think he/she is good for this role because _____" and the other says "perhaps, but I can also see him/her in this role" and they argue until they finally come to a consensus and they summon the next candidate.
Here are two starkly divergent deliberation scenarios that I envisioned after having left the room. The truth likely lies somewhere between the two:
Director: "I want to call AJ back and have her read for Emcee. I think she'd make a great Emcee."
Musical Director: "Really? I saw her as more of a Sally."
Director: "Yes, but I opened up the traditionally male role of Emcee to actresses for a reason. I want to be all profound and shit and AJ is already androgynous with her short hair and flat chest."
Musical Director: "... You were staring at her chest?"
OR
Director: "What are you thinking?"
Musical Director: "I'm thinking 'no.'"
Director: "Honestly, she's such a great girl, and she's truly been through a lot; we should call her back, if only as a bit of a pep talk."
Musical Director: "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. We'd be wasting our time, the other actors' time, and her time. She's no good for this show."
Director: "You have no heart and will never find fulfillment outside of the theatre."
Musical Director: "You have no penis and will never get married outside of California, Oregon, Massachusetts, DC, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, Maine, Nevada, New York, New Jersey, or Washington."
I think the second scenario is particularly likely because it would take close to a minute to rattle off all those states.
So, in short: like I said. Total mindfuck.
*
OH-LOOK-SEX UPDATE:
The title of this update is actually more exciting than the actual body of it, but we'll press onward.
There are currently two boys on my radar. (Well, technically four or five, but the other two or three don't count because I don't like them. They're sophomoric sophomores and they hit on me with dumb sex jokes.) The first we'll call "B" because that's the first letter of his first name. The second we'll call "Edward Norton clone" or, interchangeably, "low-rent Edward Norton" because that's what I called him for the first few months of our, um, courtship, before I learned his name. I'm in love with B. I don't know how he feels about me, but we've been friends/lovers since I met him in freshman year (have I already mentioned all of this? Sorry...) and he seems to genuinely love me as a friend. I just don't know what his deal is romantically. I don't like to assume men dig me romantically, because I don't want to set myself up for disappointment. But if it's any indication, my friends have often told me that he seems quite smitten with me.
B graduated last year. He knows everything about me and when I'm with him all my walls come down and he's the only one that's ever happened with and I always leave feeling more connected to myself and to him and all his walls come down too and we're just so in sync and yadda yadda yadda romantic comedy. When I was moving into my apartment this past weekend he texted me and asked if I'd like to meet up for lunch. I told him I couldn't because I was busy moving in and I didn't have time.
Right.
I couldn't, because I'm in love with him and that terrifies me. I couldn't, because no way was I going to bring him any further into my eating disorder by meeting him for fucking LUNCH. I couldn't, because I'm probably going to relapse into oblivion pretty soon and I don't want to make distancing myself from him any harder than it's already going to be. I couldn't, because I love him and need him too much in absolutely every way and I am pathetic and sixteen.
I told him I'd take a rain check on it. I've yet to contact him again.
Edward Norton clone is a different story. Edward Norton clone is 28. He is a graduate acting student who I spotted across the hall as a freshman and did my characteristic internal "THAT one, I want THAT one; he will be mine at least once," and waited until the timing was right to attract his attention. The timing was right at the beginning of (my REAL) sophomore year. We began with fun conversations every time we bumped into each other that I got him to think he initiated. Then I left. Then I came back and things really took off throughout May/June. We fucked, and it was glorious. Then he left for some acting intensive somewhere out east that I couldn't care less about. I imagined we were done, and I was mildly upset, not because I liked him but because I loved the sex. Aside from B, he'd been the best. I just hoped it wouldn't be awkward the next time we bumped into each other. I'm really good about not being awkward with guys I've seen naked and erect. They're usually not so good at reciprocating said courtesy.
We ended up spotting each other early this week. Our eyes met, and I decided I was going to let him decide what he wanted to do with that brief glimmer of connection. But I did make sure to meet his eyes. Zap. My hazel lasers piercing through his baby blues. And then I blinked; when my eyes next opened they were concentrated on my laptop screen as though there never was A Moment.
What great fun.
I felt him begin to approach me, and I was thrilled. Once I knew it was safe, I looked back up and beamed charitably. He gave me a hug and, as I was sitting in a chair, crouched down to face me. We briefly caught up, exchanging pleasantries, and then I threw him something bold.
"Let me know if you wanna grab coffee sometime soon," I said, with another eye lock that was too important to fuck around with.
Grab coffee. It was an inside joke code we had used previously to mean, in no uncertain terms, bang. I'd said it so casually, no one else would have known I'd been indicating anything otherwise, but he knew. The instantaneous, raw reaction he had to this phrase was so brilliant I had to relish it. His eyes widened, he leaned in ever so slightly closer, and he extended his fist to tap the leather arm of the chair.
"Definitely," he said, his voice a touch lower and huskier.
Ohhh, how I love men that I don't love.
So I hope that happens sometime soon, because honestly, I have no idea how much longer my barely-resurfaced libido is going to last. At rock bottom, it wouldn't matter if the ACTUAL Edward Norton had propositioned me. I would have consented, begrudgingly, with a laboured "I guess...".
I'd much rather fuck Edward Norton clone than B right now. For reasons already described above. Edward Norton clone, while a "great guy," means very little to me. If I'm to make love to B, I want to be there. I want to be engaged. I don't want my voyeuristic anorexia in the room with us. It was hard enough doing it at the end of the summer. Distorted though my body image was, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of shame when he ripped off my shirt. Not because I thought it was ugly -- because I felt like my eating disorder had just initiated a three-way. All my fragility, my insecurity, my instability, was staring him in the face. I hadn't just stripped physically. I'd taken off every hope of a façade and all that was left for B to see was a terrified little girl. This was not the young woman he'd come to know and desire. Yes, I was decidedly anorexic when we'd met, but I somehow exuded more confidence then -- I was functional. I was hopeful. I wasn't resigned to disease. I still glowed. The last time we made love -- and I'm talking spiritually/psychologically/emotionally here, not necessarily physically because really there's no need to get into any "X pounds lighter/heavier" shit -- I was less of a person. I was a shadow or a shell or something. I was vacant.
I have no qualms about being a shadowy vacant shell with Edward Norton clone. With B, I certainly do. He deserves more from me, and I want more from our connection. With Edward Norton clone, it's just sex. With B, the relationship encompasses every aspect of both our lives. I don't want B to watch me struggle and suffer and fall on my face and cry out for help and then fight him away when he tries to make things better. Low-rent EN wouldn't be involved in any of that, but by the very nature of our commitment to one another B would have to be. Neither B nor I are content with "just sex" from each other. There's a very strong, very deep bond that connects us, and I'm not necessarily talking about romantic love -- just loving friendship.
*
EATING DISORDER UPDATE:
Oh, that.
Right.
Yeah, so if I detach from this entire situation it's very interesting watching myself slip after I've so quickly and so vehemently tried to rally. It's happening semi-slowly. I love my rationalizations:
"I really honestly do want just fruit for breakfast, but I'm not in trouble because I'm having two cups of grapes instead of one."
"Salad with nonfat dressing (or even no dressing at all) is okay as long as I add cheese or beans. Especially if I add both cheese AND beans."
"I'm challenging myself by getting a blended ice from Coffee Bean. A small, no sugar added, 130-calorie blended ice."
"There's nothing wrong with me parking on the other side of campus to burn a few extra calories."
"I almost fainted in class today because of the breathing exercises we were doing. Food/weight has nothing to do with it."
"I legitimately enjoy eating mostly raw foods. I really don't like the taste of many processed things."
"It's best that I don't eat lunch because if I do, I'll spend all of next class stewing about it and I won't be present and I'll feel negative for the rest of the day. Besides, I really don't need it. Two cups of grapes this morning and all that -- I'll be fine."
And so on.
Well, that's quite enough from me for now.
As has become my new mantra... Fuck This Shit.
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