I hope I never get famous

I’m at that point in packing where I don’t really know what to pack next.

The kitchen? But if I pack up the kitchen, then I’d spend money eating out (AT RESTAURANTS, DON’T BE GROSS) for two weeks.

The bathroom? But then I’d be constantly unpacking things because I’d decide to use it, or I’d throw stuff out and later realize I needed it.

The bedroom? But I really don’t trust the weather right now; sometimes it threatens to drop to 45 degrees. I did pack the shoes though. I didn’t need 30+ pairs of shoes for two weeks.

Augh, I’ll just go paint furniture.

So I’m in this show right now that I’m not worried about. Not that it’s been making me nervous, but I’m really nonchalant(sp?) about it, and that worries me. I’ve never had to remind myself that I’m opening a show in two days. I’m usually very focused, and very driven, and very concerned with getting everything just right. You know, putting the finishing touches on my character, getting into the way she walks, her nervous ticks, her mindset - this is about the time I’m fully immersed in my character by mic check and all the stagehands think I’ve lost my mind because I’m walking around the stage like I’ve never been there before.

But I’m not doing that with this character! It makes me nervous. I feel like I’ve rested on these laurels that I subconsiously created for myself. When I step back and realize what day it is, and when we open (Friday!), THEN I begin to panic. I’m still very aware of what lines I’ve messed up on stage. I’m not letting go yet, and I feel like I’m shmacting. I’m not a schmactor, damn it. I still feel underprepared!

I feel unconnected to the other characters, the other people; I still don’t have certain lines down! I’m worried. When I did I get so careless? Do I have time to fix it?

The nyquil is kicking in. Augh, God.

I really didn’t want to leave Chicago. I could bear living out of a suitcase for three months. I didn’t mind the fact that every muscle in my legs and lower back constantly ached from all the walking we did in four days. I could stand all that if it didn’t mean coming back to Michigan.

Michigan depresses me! I pat myself on the back SO MANY TIMES A DAY just so I don’t break down in tears thinking about my situation sometimes. I feel like I shouldn’t have to constantly remind myself of my life successes just to keep my mental health, well, healthy. It seems…unhealthy.

But I tell you what Chicago did give me: hope!

I could do this! Moving to Chicago felt less and less of a pipe dream and more like an attainable goal every day I was there. And having friends who were just as determined to leave strengthened my resolve to go. I can’t wait to go back in April and start the apartment hunt. Now I’m trying to use this hope as crazed motivation to work my butt off until it’s time to gtfo. I AM DETERMINED, DAMN IT.

Like I write down monthly goals when I do my expenses and one of them is simply “get shit done”. I’m going to try to get shit done every month for the rest of my life. No more lollygagging!

that moment when you realize closing night is tomorrow so you stay up and do asinine things like digging the makeup out from underneath your fingernails or scrolling through facebook for no reason because a small part of you still believes like you did when you were a child that if you don’t go to sleep, tomorrow won’t come and therefore you won’t have a last call, a last curtain, a last bow.

but then you realize that your bathrobe is sticking to the residual mic tape glue on the back of your neck and that makes you feel gross and reminds you that you desperately need to shower and tomorrow is the last night you’ll have to peel that horrific tape off of the side of your face and then suddenly closing night doesn’t seem so bad.

you will miss the free baked goods in the greenroom though. you’ll always miss the greenroom snacks.

I can’t wait until christmas because no one will bother me for 24 full hours. I will have 24hrs all to myself, and I am so excited.

I really hate it when people misspell the word “breathe”. The act of inhaling and exhaling is to breathe, not “breath”. Seriously, people, not everything is British when you add an “e” to it. Breath is the air that comes out of your mouth. UGH. READ A BOOK, YOU SHITS.

If I’m going to move to Chicago in six months, I have to get more income in this house.

Sadly, that’s going to have to mean picking up a second job.

Right now, Olive Garden isn’t cutting it. I can’t make any money with the crap schedule I’m stuck with. Being at the mercy of the economy really blows, let me tell you. It’s hard to budget and save when you don’t know for sure how much you’re going to make in a day. Or an hour. Or how long you’ll even work, even.

So at the moment, I’m doing all I can to not blow money recklessly: I’m not going out, I’m not traveling, I’m not buying new things for myself, I’ve become neurotic about keeping my accounts balanced, I’m taking my “paychecks” (when I get them) and putting them directly into savings; and I’m looking for a second job.

Extremely hard to do when you’re as busy as I am.

My typical week consists of work, dance, Kingdom Hall, rehearsal, voice lessons, Bible studies, and (maybe, if this other school accepts the offer) workshops. Not to mention the minor things you do in life like grocery shop, clean your house, go to the gym, et cetera. I am busy every day until at least 10pm. So a second day job is out of the picture.

This means I’m looking at a few places here: Walmart, Kroger, McDonald’s, or a factory.

I’m trying to be ok with working at a place like that for a few months. I’m thinking I’ll give either Walmart or McDonald’s a shot when it comes to late night, and then try factories as a last-ditch effort because the closest one’s about 30mins away. I’m leery of driving home after a 8 or 12hr work shift.

I don’t know. But it’ll all work out.

He’s 19 years old. 

He has six tattoos.

He’s totaled three cars.

And he recently got arrested for driving someone else’s car under the influence. 

I found out all of these things from everyone else in my family, which is not him or my father.

I think I should be pissed because of the exclusion, like they don’t consider me to be a sister to him because I never went back for the summers as soon as I turned 13. 

But I’m not. Actually, I’m just disappointed. And I’m not surprised. For some reason, my dad doesn’t tell people what goes on in his household, like people don’t want to know or they’ll judge him for the way his children act. Well, judging him based on the actions of his children isn’t entirely ridiculous, since parents have the responsibility to teach their children how to function in society in an acceptable manner. 

But I don’t get how I don’t get the lowdown on my brother’s shenanigans. I can understand if Dad doesn’t want to say it to worry me, or if it’ll sound like he can’t get a grip on his second child, and is therefore sounding like a crappy parent that (I hope he doesn’t) think I think he is; but if it’s a pride issue or he doesn’t want to air out his dirty laundry or he wants everyone to keep thinking that his family is this poster-family of success, he really needs to give up that schtick, because it’s been tired for 10 years now.

I’m not going to say he’s a bad parent. Sure, he and I have had our fights, and we’ve been straight-up douchebags to each other, and I’ve said some really, really hateful things to him over the years (that I won’t apologize for; because I mean what I say and I say what I mean), and he’s done some really, really stupid things over the years (which he won’t apologize for; because that stubborn trait that I have came from him), but he’s also softened up a bit, and he’s reaping what he’s sown, and he’s trying to fix what bridges haven’t been burned to oblivion. And that’s the thing: he’s trying. And I can’t get mad at him for that. 

I will say that he gave up on my brother, though. I feel like after going through me and my step-siblings, and all the problems associated with us, when he saw those same emotional warning signs in my brother he just said to himself “augh, not this again” and just emotionally distanced himself. I think he should have cracked down on him and nipped all of that in the bud. If it meant sending him to military school or not letting him get his driver’s license – or, for Chrissakes’, making sure the boy could read (I have no clue how he skirted that one) – it would have been for the better, no matter how severe it seemed at the time. 

So I’m sitting here feeling helpless. I don’t know if I can even talk to him about it, because I don’t want him getting mad at anyone because they told me. But I don’t think I can talk to my brother about it, because he considers me the “cool sister who got out”, and that respect that you’d give a parent – even someone you highly respect – just isn’t there between us. I can’t call him up screaming for him to get his shit together before I come over there and clean him up so bad he’ll be pissing bubbles, because I haven’t been that way with him ever, and doing that to him now will make me look hypocritical and that I’m attacking him. And I don’t want to attack him.

I just want to tell him that the cars and the clothes and the money doesn’t matter. The weed is irrelevant. You’ll have time to drink in public. You’ll have time to sleep with girls. But self-destruction isn’t cool, and you’re not a badass if you’re wrecking shit and getting arrested. You’re not the cool friend if all your other friends are going to give college a shot and you’re left behind watching Pop-Up Video on VH1 wondering what happened to Lil’ Bow Wow while smoking a blunt. Adults don’t do that. Adults pay bills and they plan out their life and they get credit and they find people they love and they try to live a life that is meaningful to them. There will be things you can’t do if you decide to build on this rap sheet. Like vote. Or own a firearm. Or run for office. Or be a cop.

I just want to tell him to find something that makes him truly happy, whether it be crunching numbers, fixing cars, making art, or playing fucking Magic: The Card Game like a champion. I don’t care what it is, I just want him to be happy, because what he thinks is making him happy just reminds him how much he hates himself and where he is, so he’s sticking himself in this vicious cycle; he’s pinning this hat to his head and nailing it into his skull so when he tries to take it off there’ll be no going back for him.

I just want to save him, and I don’t know how.

When I would go to rehearsal/camp/improv class, I’d stop by Dunkin’ Donuts in Midland right off the interstate.

Today, I went and the DD was closed down. Next to it there was a Tim Horton’s, piddling away right as rain.

This is why I hate Michigan so, so much. 

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO RUN ON, MICHIGAN?!? CRAPPY DOUGHNUTS AND LAME COFFEE???

I’m really unsure why people don’t get the hint that you’re not interested in talking to them when they send you a really long text and you give them a one word answer

Like “look at my football cleats! They’re so cool lolololollolololllll”

And you just respond with “Yep”

How is that not an indication that I don’t give a flying fuck about your pink football cleats