There's a certain security that comes with writing. I much prefer libel over slander. It sounds more
sophisticated.
When I was recently dragged off the page and handed a camera with the direction "Go!", I suddenly second guessed my entire existence over the past two and a half years. I had built up a lot of clout in the world of my twelve readers. Could my words possibly be as influential and inspiring on camera? Could my cheekbones exceed their textual expectations with sexual visualization? How embarrassed would my parents be?
For hundreds of posts, I had been writing to impress the only person in this world that mattered to me:
ME.
Now, I was spending hours to impress some rich kid I went to college with and a phantom producer in L.A. with only the feedback of "Go crazy. Gay it up." as encouragement to be a movie reviewer. I had never even turned on a camera before, let along set lighting, edit footage, and blindly find my angles. But I would do anything for fame.
Perhaps all for naught. But perhaps because this crafty little Jewish boy who lived with my incredibly Aryan friend was the push off the page that TJB needed.
My Christmas gift to you, 12 readers, are the hours I've spent filming and editing on a computer built only for e-mail. You can practically see my genius growing as you progress. Watch now, before I realize what I've done and dismantle the internet.
We've all had those nights at home alone with a bottle of wine when we realize we have zero friends and we'll never amount to anything and we'll die alone and nobody will remember us and the person who finds us on the bathroom floor will probably just close the door and quietly back away while the cats cuddle up next to our decaying body.
How do I find myself in such places given I have such flawless bone structure, am 6'1", blonde, and insanely talented? Usually, I find myself falling down a YouTube wormhole brought on by bottomless glasses of Malbec and Twitter feeds of ex boyfriends. But, after years of tears and self-deprecating humor, I have discovered how to climb out of the deep, dark pit of YouTube emotions. You just have to know which related videos to click and in which order.
Get ready America. You're about to be taken on a turbulent journey of emotions. My emotions. This could get ugly (and really gay). Clear you calendar and cork the wine because you're not going anywhere.
It's the first glass and I'm just not sure how I'm feeling. So, I turn to Alice Ripley singing "Meadowlark" in a production of The Bakers Wife directed by a former director of mine (who I admit is very handsome and has received an unfortunate amount of unsolicited drunk texts...so sorry). The song is sad, happy, sad again, happy, hopeful, bittersweet, and as bipolar as Diana Goodman.
I've decided her tearful Irish goodbye at the end is just enough to send me towards the dark side. I probably didn't belong with any of those boys anyway, right? But maybe I did. But maybe we should have? How can I tell? Maybe Sondheim can help me. Let's check in:
Oh my GOD, she's right. We're pregnant and he doesn't care and we might as well just move across the ocean because WTF. Let's sing another really emotional song about leaving from the musical that changed my life, sung by a woman who was never in that musical. Currently, I'm pouring my second (or third) glass:
So, my apartment is packed and I've decided I'm moving back to Chicago or back to New York, or whichever city I'm not currently living in. Now I'm wondering if maybe this is just who I am. Maybe I should just stick it out because this masochistic lifestyle is a part of me, and maybe I like it that way. Hey Julia, do you know any songs about that? Of course you do:
OK, we've pretty much hit rock bottom. I'm looking at that second bottle of wine and telling myself, "NO! We can beat this!" But I can't seem to fully shake the masochistic quality of it all. I must speak my mind through song (one I sing really well), only sung by this guy who sings it better. Dedicated readers, in a huge and unexpected move...I unveil to you: The Boy With the Leather Jacket.
I'm back to that maybe-I-can feeling, but I need to build myself up more. Let's sing a song about how smart and amazing I am and everyone back home thinks I'm awesome, but OMG what if I'm not, but I probably still am? If you ever see me walking down the street and my mouth is moving, I'm probably singing this song:
I can do this. I want it. But I want MORE. I turn to my embarrassingly passionate love of Disney (and face my fear of gingers):
YES! YES! I will have love! I will have fame! GIVE IT TO ME!
Yes. This is it. My bottle of wine is finished and I've talked myself out of getting a cat. I return to Sondheim to remind myself that even though times can be dark, there can be a happy ending as long as you keep moving on:
We've done it. We've come full circle, and even though I'm drunk, I'm feeling more motivated than ever. I turn to the performance I saw during one of my first trips to NYC, music directed by a man who means as much to me as a father. I watch this video before every audition when I need that extra kick before walking out the door, reminding myself that the only direction you need is "forward".
There's a certain security that comes with writing. I much prefer libel over slander. It sounds more 