Gah! So. An issue, it arises.

I'm off to Colorado this afternoon with 3/5 of my family and shan't be back until the evening of the thirteenth, which means:

Shan, I won't see you until Christmas!  (I know, should've realized this earlier, but have dates ever stuck in my head? No, no they have not.)

Susan, shall I ever see or hear from you again?  "For it is written, if two GaGas are Floating somewhere in Outer Space at once, it is a Sign of the End Times."

AB, will I see you?  I think I shall, but not quite certain, which naturally throws me into a state of turmoil -- not quite conducive to vacationing.

So it turns out they don't take away your license to angst publicly even if you haven't written an entry in over six months.  Huh.

Hello, strangers (believe me, I know the lack of contact is my fault entirely).

As the semester draws to a close, it seems a time of reflection, of contemplation, of self-assessment.  Unfortunately, I'm too busy trying to figure out HOW THE HELL I AMASSED SO MUCH STUFF and getting it back to Tejas to go into all that.  A list of a few of the things I've learned over the semester will have to suffice:

1.  Take full advantage of classes taught by "an expert in the field" ... that means, read the assigned material, because he probably wrote, translated, or edited most of it.
2. Even smart girls fall for, "No, really, I'll totally call you in the morning."
3. No matter how small the meal plan you get, you will still end up with a bajillion unused meals.
4. Studying is never facilitated by listening to Broadway soundtracks.  You end up writing papers that include "En La Mala Sangre, la escena es totalmente roja, la sangre de hombres enojados, y negro, la oscuridad de edades pasadas ..."
5. Sometimes the best solution to a situation seems to be leaving the continent.
6. The anticipation of leaving the continent makes you a lot braver than you might otherwise be.

I can't wait to see everyone ... give me a call (919-360-7952) any time after the 18th and before the 6th.  (I will only bring back London souvenirs for people I see over break, so there's your incentive.)

Hello, darlings.

It's been a nasty few weeks, and I haven't checked in on Xanga in the whole of that time, so forgive me for being hopelessly behind.  It's not for lack of interest, it's for lack of computer (see below).  No time to really write what's going on, but here's a brief (and incomplete) rundown:

1. I'm going to NYC for Thanksgiving.
2. I've got, not one, but TWO boys to deal with.
3. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is pretty good, but not as well-done as Prisoner of Azkaban.
4. My computer has been in for repairs twice in 8 days.  ITS took a week to repair it each time. 
5. I've fallen hopelessly behind in my schoolwork.
6. My show (Woyzeck) is a raging disaster, despite hundreds of hours of labor.
7. See number 2 again.  How wild is that?

I love and I miss my GaGas -- think of me, think of me fondly when we've ... you know.

In a show (Balm in Gilead), which opens Friday.  The cast is a) not fully memorized, b) not fully costumed, c) apparently unable to observe basic rules of theatre etiquette, and d) completely blase about any and all of the above.  Usually I'd say, Oh, fuck it, what the hell, let's have a ball anyway and which way to the cast party?  But the whole darn show is just embarrassing.  The few lines I do have are all about tits and how much I like 'em (I play a lesbian junkie), the director decided a week ago to change the whole thing into a theater-in-the-round, and the cast was responsible for costuming themselves--disastrous, completely and utterly--but my name is going on the program because I was the costume "consultant". 

And there's what it really comes down to, isn't it?  I'm hacked off not because the product of two month's labor is one giant, steaming mess, but because my name will be attached to that mess.  Doesn't bode very well for me as an artist, eh?  Go ahead, I cry, compromise my artistic integrity to the high heavens, but don't you hold me responsible if it comes out looking like something the cat dragged in, then clawed to a bloody pulp, ate, and regurgitated.  Sometimes I really, really doubt my chosen profession.  I'm not skilled enough and too flighty to be a true blue techie, but I'm not talented enough and (just slightly) too sane to be a great actress.  Ah, what shall become of meeeee? *cue melodramatic swell of violins*