Tag Archives: tired

Breaking The Damn Rules

4 Nov

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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Awake!

17 Sep

It’s 7:02. My body does one of those jolting awake things, like when you’ve forgotten something. I look at my wrist to check the time. The Fitbit is off. I didn’t put it back on again after my post-show shower last night. What an idiot! Check the time. Oh good! Good body-clock! Thank God! 

I get up and put the Fitbit on again, checking the battery, which is severely low. Wow, even with it on, I’d have prob’ly missed the alarm. I’ll charge it at work, I tell myself.

…I lay there checking my Entertainment news, as is my morning practice, and contemplate my tummy’s readiness for its first cup of (what will be many) black coffees today. While streaming news I remind self of rehearsal tonight, lines I’ll need to learn at lunch somehow, and being thankful I made it without a major injury through another week of shows.

…Coffee is made, and consumed, look down at my Fitbit, and sure enough, the alarm didn’t buzz. But I’m up and getting ready for work, none-the-less.

…Then it’s car, commute, so many damn detours from out of nowhere! I text Boss at second one…looks like I’ll be late because of them. I’m circling, I’m on and off-ramping, I’m getting ticked, cuz I’m too damn tired for this, and its a hell of a way to start a Monday.

…I get to work, and am first in. Unlock the crap, prep the stuff…I’m sitting at my desk, jotting to-dos on my idiot pad, when Boss texts me back:

“Um, why you there? It’s Sunday.”

…I open my computer screen.

“Sunday,” it says.

…Sunday. It’s Sunday. 

I’m sitting at my desk, and it’s Sunday.

…It does actually take me that long to understand what is wrong with this and all the things that led to this moment and how I have never ever ever, in my life, so totally lost the sense of time and day before. Not just “a little,” not just for a “moment.” I’m almost two hours into the loss, at this point.

…I pack up. I lock up. I go through the Starbucks for a giant latte and some food to settle my now flip-flopping tummy. 

…Not “suddenly” but even more than a moment ago, I feel like total shit. I was exhausted: now I’m emotionally almost crippled by it. I was cold: now I’m blasting the heat like its winter in Michigan, and still freezing. I was bruised but relieved that I made it through this last weekend of shows: now I’m horrified that I have a matinee still yet to face.

…I try my best not to freak out my Barista with this total overload of emotion, collect my goods, and drive home.

I get into bed, without even bothering to unmake it first. The pillows are taking up all the room, I’m already two cups of black coffee in, even without the latte, so sleep is impossible. It would be anyway. It already has often been, of late.

There is a misnomer that Art is or should be all fun and games. It’s probably great for some people if it is. I prefer it as the icing on a good amount of work. But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it sucks the absolute life out of you. And there is some strange unspoken rule that despite what it takes from you, you should be greatful to be a working artist and not mention the toll, or the truth of its impact. I say: that is shit. 

…Art is like anything else. Sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it is disappointing as fuck, and frustrating, and insulting, and debilitating. Like anything you love: art has shit days. It *can* have shit months. 

…For me, of late: it has. I have been fully aware of it. I knew it was bad. I didn’t know it was this bad. It’s a new low on the scale. 

I feel…empty. 

I am laying here in bed, too exhausted to cry, I need to save whatever energy I have for a house full of ticket payers. I need to somehow adjust my mood so I won’t infect my fellow cast, who is probably sleeping away right now, blissfully oblivious of the day I’ve already had before they’ve so much as got up for their morning pee. I need to rally presence of mind and focus…of a brain which didn’t know what day it was through two hours of time…so that I don’t do more physical damage to myself than is absolutely necessary out there, in stocking feet, in the dark.

I need to trust.

I don’t have any of that right now.

…And I am very, very, very, very tired.

Obviously.

In every way that I can be.

And that, is my Sunday morning truth.

~D

Nominal Fever Ravings

5 Feb

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I need a break from this Chekhov.

…Am stress dreaming about it at this point, because with almost no rehearsal other than talking about it, we open in 9 days.

….And while “concept” is great and all, I need to “do” the fuck out of a thing in order to actually build a tangible reality. One cannot just “theory” a show into existence. But we are having to…because we don’t have time together without giant gaps in between, and schedules are so harried from everyone’s conflicts, that there is no like “panic meet-up time” where one can get private scene partner work slipped in, or try every which way to do a scene, or…well…

…Anyway…I’m toasted. Have been reaming this script alone for days and hours and trying to make choices, hoping they won’t interfere with scene partner’s choices (who I’ve never worked with before), but having to stake out like three or four levels of options here so I can alter or try to connect my stuff to his stuff, for tomorrow morning…when we next meet up.

4 more rehearsals to figure it all out.

…God. You know you’re stressed when Stoppard is the easier, happy place you wish you could fall back into.

…Meanwhile…

The required post-show crash hit, was obtained and nursed for half this week, on my couch. A lot of sleeping. A lot of first generation X-Files-watching (which I had never seen the first time ’round.) I happen to think it’s fun, badass, and slightly terrifying…whilst simultaneously worrying about my cold being a deadly alien variety which has no earthly cure, and/or becoming abducted.

…I wish I was joking about that. But: I am not.

…I induced it even further into my Psyche by watching some episodes across hours of fever sleeping…so now I feel inevitably doomed, in a very deep marrow-of-my-bones way…but have to keep viewing, as like a “How To” mental log of how to combat them, when they do eventually come for me.

…The truth is out there. And so are “they.” Cuz there’s no fucking way that the buck stops at humanity. Microscopic animals take us down, for gods sake. Lets get real, here.

…Anyway…

…No X-Files after dark, is the rule mandate. That’s reserved for script stress, and inevitable alcohol consuming. Mostly with Cecil. Who I gave the cold back to. Cuz I’m an awesome, sharing, sister-friend that way.

…So.

…It’s Friday night. Rent is due, therefor: I’m broke. No Arcadia to go play in. Too distracted about tomorrow morning’s rehearsal to go see that other show I was going to, tonight…even as a PWYC. Which is prob’ly better anyway. Am still not back to even 80% ungross-feeling, across any length of time.

…Oh, and Mrs. Johnson dropped in…about three hours ago…to mix it up a little.

Oh, what a wicked cocktail of life, I do breed…

~D

Things To Do*

6 Dec

*When Other People Sleep

I’ve been awake since two a.m.. It is now a quarter to five. Last time I’d looked at the clock before the short stint of sleep I actually got was 11:30. So, I’ve had 2.5 hours of sleep. You should be impressed I can do math right now.

…Either way, more is obviously not an option. The alarm goes off at 7:05, my flight leaves at 10:40.

I control none of these things. But I do get to decide how to spend my not-sleep time. And in case you are also having complete-shit sleeping patterns, may I suggest some of the following to fill all your lonely waking hours as the world Zzz’s on:

1. Make hot tea:

image

Everyone does it. Cuz it’s supposed to be “calming” and “soothing.” I happen to like tea on an average day, so this always seems a good idea to me when I’m awake before dawn, and freezing my ass off. It works on a hit/miss scale though–warming you, till you’re full of it, and need to get up to pee over and over again, which makes you colder, which necessitates more tea. Sort of a vicious cycle, really…but what the hell else is there to do at two a.m.?

2. In between potty breaks, read this:

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It has pictures. Plus jokes. Plus interactive material. If you’re me, it’s also by your bed right now, so: readily available in a convenient location.

3. Consider eating this:
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A representative of the left-overs currently in my fridge. I can’t show you the real one, cuz I ate it. About an hour ago. In between suggestions 1 & 2. Midnight eating for me isn’t exclusively due to boredom, but more “I’m nauseous from lack of sleep and it’s either this or swigging a thing of Pepto, and this tastes better.”

4. Catch up on this:
image

…Then realize the topics only feed your total inability to defreak in any way at all, and move directly into this:

5.
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…Which is good for about 20 minutes, by which time (because everyone you know is asleep) you are entirely caught up on every stream and cat meme.

6. Which leads next to this:
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I suggest 90’s Rom-Coms, or sitcom comedy. They require zero reasoning skills, plot analysis or stress…as you already know how they turn out, even if you never saw them the first time, because they were made in America, and there are rules.

7. Solve this:

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The ultimate pillow pile of perfection. I’m a girl. Which means I have like 47 pillows on my bed…some just decorative, sure…but a lot are main-functioning. I keep them in the hopes of one day solving the perfect combo of body-pillow, neck pillow, back pillow, fat pillow, skinny pillow nesting…which will lead to instant sleep on say nights like this one. I believe there is a key. And I will find it one day.

8. Window shopping in your underwear:
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The internet is never closed. You can always go there and look at stuff, and put it in your wish list, no matter HOW much money it costs. Who cares?! YOU aren’t buying it! But your hypothetical winning Lotto ticket, or sugar daddy, or wealthy admirer might! And they won’t know what the really good stuff is, unless you put it in there!

9. See step 5:
image

…Part of you thinks, “hey, it’s almost six now. Somebody’s gotta be awake and posting.” Only, it’s Saturday. So: no. No one is.

10. Do this:
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Write a blog. It helps sometimes. Also: you’ve run out of other activities. Last time the neighbors frowned on your early-morning interior redesigning overhaul. And it’s too early to drink.

The end.
~D

Huh.

26 Mar

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So this happened…

Got on the scale this morning after another not-great-sleep and had a double take at the face plate.  Understandable as my eyes were blurry from being shrieked awake by the news of how high the body count is now in the mudslide here…cuz  apparently I must have bumped the station setter on my clock radio and switched it to talk radio.

…I hate talk radio. It’s almost always angry, picking fights and depressing.  I hate it even more when it wakes me up out of the three hours sleep I finally managed to get.

…So anyway…where was I?

…Oh yeah, I was rubbing my eyes again to focus on the digital read-out on my scale, while behind me the shower water blasted on full, waiting to warm up.

Scale: Blinky, blinky, solid number.

Me: Wait. What?

(I get off and try again.)

Scale: Blinky, blinky, same solid number.

Me: Huh.

(I get off, jiggle the back plate, check the batteries…and try it a third time)

Scale: Yeah, I already told you…”BLINKY, BLINKY, SAME NUMBER.” What are you not understanding here?

Me: Because …how??

Scale: How the hell would I know? I have one job, lady…I’m doing it. That’s all I’ve got.

Me: But…wha…I don’t…understand

Scale: Listen, it is what it is. Deal with it.

Me: But…but…

Scale: –LOOK!! I’ve gotten a lot of fucking abuse from you lately, you know?! Every damn time you’ve used me in like the past month, you’ve told me to go to hell, go fuck myself, or kiss your ass! Every. Single. Morning! All I do is report your weight. It ain’t my fault what the outcome is! Did I shove the booze and shit-food down your throat till you puffed up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon??? NO! I didn’t! I report the results! That’s all! It’s like getting pissed at the weather man when he says its gonna rain today, and it does!!

Me: –BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS CAN BE RIGHT?!

Scale: WELL, TRY! DEAL WITH IT! I’M DONE NOW! GO TAKE YOUR DAMN SHOWER AND LEAVE ME ALONE, ALREADY!!

Me: BUT, HOW DO YOU LOSE SEVEN POUNDS IN ONE DAY?!?!?

Scale: PEE A LOT?! I DON’T KNOW!!! NOW GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!!!

Me: So I’ve just passed the 10 pound mark???

Scale: I GUESS SO!

Me: Just like “that?” Just from out of NOWHERE?!

Scale: APPARENTLY, YES!

Me: AFTER ALL THIS TIME?! OUT OF NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING…DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY?!!?

Scale: ARE YOU INSINUATING THAT I’M LYING?!?

Me: IT JUST DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!!

Scale: WELL, I DON’T CARE!

Me: HOLY SHIT!!

Scale: WHATEVER, YOU’RE BEYOND ASTONISHED, YA-DE-YA-DA…NOW WILL YOU GET YOUR FAT ASS OFF MY FACE AND GET IN THE DAMN SHOWER?!

Me: IT’S LESS FAT THAN IT WAS!

Scale: WELL, “BULLY” FOR YOU!

Me: YOU’RE A SHITTY MOTIVATIONAL COACH, YOU KNOW THAT?!

Scale: IN FACT, I DO! AND I DON’T CARE.

Me: CAN’T YOU EVEN CONGRATULATE ME IN MY MOMENT OF GLORY?!

Scale: NO! LEST YOU FORGET, YOU’VE STILL TEN POUNDS TO GO!

Me: –BUT IT AIN’T TWENTY ANYMORE!

Scale: WELL, IT AIN’T FIVE, EITHER!

Me: BUT IT WILL BE SOMEDAY!! AND NOW I KNOW IT FOR REAL!

(I get off scale as it’s screen goes to black.)

Me: FOR REAL!!!

(Momentary joy fills the land, just as I step into the shower…and scald myself raw.)

Me: SUNOFAFUCKINGBITCH!!!!

Shower Head: WELL DON’T SCREAM AT ME?!!? I’VE BEEN WAITING LIKE FIVE MINUTES ON FULL HEAT TEMP! I’M ONLY DOING MY DAMN JOB!! EVERY FREAKIN’ MORNING, IT’S THE SAME THING WITH YOU…!

(end scene.)

~D

Vikings & Sword Brandishings

27 Aug

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amtiredandcranky.

dontwannablog…

orusepunctuationspacesoranything.

iwouldratherreadthisBBCHistorymagazinearticleaboutthevikings…

andhowtheywieldswordsandtookoverstuff.

…soiamgonna.

~D

* Enter Title Here

9 Aug

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I was just saying to m’carpool buddy last night…as we unlocked our seatbelts and began collecting our bags of crap to take with us into the theatre…that it’s prob’ly a really good thing that I’m doing a show right now, else I’d be pretty plowed with this cloud of “suck” I’ve got stalking me.

Work at the office it just hell-squared and multiplied, with too muchness and no rest or reprieve in sight…and finances are for total shit, with now added stress of getting license fees paid so I can rejoin the rest of the adult driving population, plus some personal stuff has really gotten me down.

I dunno ’bout you, but every so often, life likes to hit me these shitty ground balls, that keep popping up at the last second and smacking me in the face.  It’s never just the one, it’s often three or four…they are always in close succession, and at the most inconvenient times. 

This is one of those times.

…And it’s hard to find a good balance to that.

You know what I mean?

…Turning the crap parts off, at the end of the day, has become like a third job for the past several weeks.  And carpooling with Mr. Director means I have less than the average time to do that in, as his schedule requires earlier arrivals for production meetings.  Which means for the past week, I have not “been done” yet in the converting process of Part “A” into Part “B,” by the time I’m supposed to be moving on into “the next thing.”

…Plus, for the past TWO days of that, I’ve been hormonal as well.

…Which meant my needing (for sanity purposes) to unplug from the world the second I get into the car, until nearly the second we arrive at the theatre…in which time I’m over my head with blaring music coming at me through my earbuds, and trying my very best NOT to fixate on the crap that I cannot control across about thirty minutes of commute time, after which, I’m supposed to magically emerge as: “funny.”

“Funny” isn’t easy in any circumstances, and it’s even harder when you really, really, really, would rather just sit and cry…alone…in the bathtub…for a few minutes.

…Not in a total melt-down capacity.  Not because life is beyond the point of undertaking, but rather because you are frustrated, and tired, and broke and see no reason that won’t continue for a great deal of time to come. Or, like Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News” where she gives herself that 5 minute pre-cry release every morning, as a prep for all the shit that will likely be flung at her that day.

I feel like this kind of depression needs it’s own name, really.  It surpasses a “groan,” but isn’t as bad as “travesty.” 

…It’s “important” and constantly “present”…like the reverse gut-fear feeling of an adrenaline rush, but it isn’t a major disease, and you aren’t being evicted.

…It makes sleeping spotty, involuntary sighs a natural byproduct, and stupid people annoy you a little bit more than they usually do, but you haven’t burst into tears due to a malfunctioning stapler, punched a wall, or set your desk on fire. (yet.)

Actually, this emotional space I’m currently at, is what I picture a LOT of poor adult bastards live in…like 80% of the time.  So I should be glad that it’s just come to my attention as being a current “thing” and not a life-long “constant”…which is about two steps lower than my average emo state…which still puts me better off than the chick with 5 kids, working the drive thu at McDonalds right now.

…And I can appreciate that fact. 

Some of the time.

…Only mostly, this week, I have not.  Appreciated it, that is.  Not even the part where I “get to” go to rehearsal every night. 

Nope.

This week, absolutely everything but breathing and sleeping has been one gigantic personal pain in my ass.  Even eating. 

…And yet, every night in it, by the end of a rehearsal that I sincerely did NOT want to go to, where I insisted to myself that there was no fucking way on god’s green earth that I would ever be able to be FUNNY at, (because why in the hell SHOULD I, given the current circumstances?!) Every night (by the end), I had somehow or another been slapped out of it.

…Which ended up helping a lot more than I originally thought it did.

It meant, going to bed every night, minus the cloud of “shit.” 

…Sure, it would come in throughout the night, like a light fog, and start to seep and settle and collect and grow by morning, back to it’s original size. But in the meantime, at least I got some sleep outta the deal.  Some laughs the night before…

…And every once in a while…for reasons surpassing understanding…for about three hours or so, I could even be “funny.”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with all that.  But whatever it is, involves art somehow, and how it’s a good thing, I guess. 

So: now you know.

  ~D

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