Sep 14, 2005

Commitment. Martyrdom. Using people.

I got home from work only a short while ago. A seventeener (my new word for a seventeen-hour work day). The day before was an elevenner (my new word for a...well, you get the idea). And I'm aiming to be in the office by 7:30. Which makes my night of sleep potentially just shy of a threer. I had to skip my workshop tonight. And I was gravely unhappy about that. Things are rough. And demanding. And not terribly rewarding. At the moment. Can only speak in short bursts. Apparently.

In the notes after the harold I was in on Sunday evening, a character I created was referred to as the "minority lover." I suggested we use that as the name for the team we are forming for a competition at the I.O. My compatriots nodded in agreement. So now we are Minority Lover. And I was tasked to write a blurb for us. The suggestions I submitted were:

Teaching men to fish for three full decades.

Jerking off on speakerphone since the late '80s.

Enjoying a greater right to life since 1993.

Commitment. Martyrdom. Using people.

Revenge is a dish.

Three women will understand that.

Narcolepsy is not a superpower.

Refrigeration is the secret to our freshness.

Don't shoot yourself in the soft palate. That's one you won't come back
from.

Q: What's the hardest part about rollerblading?
A: Telling your dad you're gay.

We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness. We do earnestly
repent and are utterly sorry for these our misdoings. The remembrance of
them is grievous unto us. The burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon
us.

Beef tenderloin: The "little black dress" of meats

What kind of scandalous technique is that? Such tasteless vulgarity will
never defeat me! I am far above it!

Watch how a real ninja defeats an upstart.

He's combined shadow cloning with his own invention: the sexy jutsu. What a
foolish ninja technique.

Those last three were transcribed directly from the episode of Naruto that was on when I was writing the others. And several others have appeared in my blog in one form or another. And the one Steve picked to submit was the title of this entry, which was jotted down with the expectation of being turned into a fully written piece at some point. It was something I was thinking about while running. And I never got around to writing it. In a way, I prefer it. Nothing I was going to say was especially insightful or revelatory. Only if I allow myself to make such pronouncements, I could conceivably stop writing altogether. I miss writing for the sake of the song in it. I miss stumbling onto ideas whose progenitors were less than obvious to me. I miss having the time to justify the squandering of that time. I miss being important enough in the grand scheme of things to want to indulge myself in the forming of a sentence. Today, I am somewhat less.

Friday night, after a long-ass day at work, I went to the grand opening of the UCB Theatre and stayed out late, audiencing and then celebrating. Saturday morning, Jessie and I took interim headshots for our audition on Sunday. Then we went to Disneyland and stayed for the duration. Sunday, we auditioned and then performed and then ate Chinese food while talking about the preceding two activities. And Monday was another long-ass day, at the end of which was a wood-fired pizza from Trader Joe's that made all other frozen pizzas seem like pancakes dressed with horsemeat. And then it was today. And both yesterday and today, I wore things to work which -- once I got to work -- caused me to rethink their wearing. Whether because of the looks I get from certain people or just the reality check of walking into the bathroom and catching my reflection, yesterday I realized my skirt was too short and today I realized my blouse was too low-cut. And I miss the days when nothing I wore mattered because no one who saw it would have anything to say about the progression of my career. I had no idea how easy and good I had it.

I also miss writing in my journal with a pencil while sitting on a bench beside the La Brea Tarpits. I miss my black bowling bag-style handbag that the journal could fit in, back before I had a digital camera to always be carrying. I miss that golden hour of pre-dusk sunlight in the west-facing offices of the building I worked in. I miss shortlived confidence and eager adventurousness. I miss playing hooky when it was hot out. I miss pissing the day away on behalf of the sensual pleasures. I miss drawing on placemats with crayons.

And I am missing out on what little sleep I will be afforded. And that is a fucking foolish thing to do.

posted by Mary Forrest at 3:14 AM | Back to Monoblog


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