That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.
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I'm considering penning a memoir. I'm serious. I'm sure there's a finer art to it than what I'm putting to paper. No, I know there is as evidenced by PaperGirlMemoir's blog. I enjoy her blog, among several others, those detailing their writing journeys. I suppose she's serving as a "model," though she has a much better, cleaner handle on how to go about writing one than I do. I tend to ramble. (I'm pretending it's my style, so don't say anything). At first, I thought, why on earth would I think anyone wants to read a memoir by me. And then, I...
I'm addicted to crack (machines).
There's an epidemic in Starkville. I know because I'm very attuned to these things. Like any hypochondriac. It's crack (machines). I speak from experience. (And I'm pretty sure it's not an epidemic of One, but if it is, that's ok, because the army is an Army of One, and I know for a fact that there's more than one person in the army. I'm stepping forward to speak today because I'm no longer afraid to confess that I'm addicted. Perhaps, I can speak as One for us All. Perhaps, my story will help others). I could hardly write that last sentence without giggling...at least,...
Last night, my ankle had an out-of-body experience.
It's a crying shame Shakespeare didn't write a character who had an almost broken, badly sprained ankle. He didn't, did he? I mean, I'm only peripherally familiar with the hunchback of Richard III. (I think it's the III, it's Richard plus some number, that much I know). I still have two more gruelling performances of this play left and last night I...well...I may have compromised my 1000% commitment to my role in this production: I now possess a badly sprained ankle. That's never happened to me before, in my entire acting career. Truth be told, and gladly, I used to have really good balance and coordination....
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