Theatre Of Torture

First off, I think my car has now been cursed. No, not by the proverbial gods, but my yours truly. With all the 'i hate my car' mutterings, I have, via law of attraction, made sure a stream of bad things will happen now to my poor car. Last week, it was my battery and this week, a biker slamming into my car. Now, before all the bikers start hunting me down, let me say that both the biker and I have acknowledged that it was the biker's fault. Poor guy. Poor car. He wasn't too badly hurt, mostly shocked and the side mirror was the only damage on the car. Really, the whole thing has convinced me that I better stop saying mean stuff about my vehicle.

I LOVE MY CAR!!!!

As for my job. Ug. Ug ug ug ug ug. *Sigh* I must also change my tune about THAT or I will be living in hell for the next seven weeks. (Oh God, SEVEN WEEKS!!!) I love my job? Hmmmm, sure, I suppose I could try. While I am standing on stage, my heart heavy, I soothe myself with the reminder that so many people out there have secret dreams to be paid to dress in costumes and sing, dance and act. Do it for the people who don't have the courage yet to pursue the dream, I tell myself. Live the dream for them. Because let me tell you, it is no longer mine. My favorite part of the professional theatre industry is getting the role. But the doing of the role? The rehearsing and the mounting and the running of the show --- THAT is a type of torture. Especially this kind of theatre. Oh vey.

I LOVE MY JOB!!!

I LOVE MY CAR!!

I LOVE MY ANKLES!!

I LOVE MY FRIENDS!!

I LOVE MY CAREER PATH CLARITY!!!

I LOVE BLOGGING ABOUT THE SAME ISSUES OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN!!!!!

Seven more weeks. Ug.