oh, sweet depression

Today, I hit rock bottom.  No, I didn't flunk a class or smoke a whole pack of cigarettes in 13 minutes; I didn't OD on heroin, commit a sex felony or get a DUI... worse, much worse...

I skipped out on an audition.

Granted, it was only paying $50/hour for what was sure to be a half-hour gig, but still, usually I'm up for wasting $11.53 in gas and three hours of my life prepping, prettying up, and passively sitting through rush hour traffic for the 1/1000 of a chance that a) nothing about me offends the casting director, b) the director doesn't think I remind him of his psychotic ex-girlfriend, c) the producer doesn't prefer blondes, and d) they collectively offer me this part that'll effectively secure my place in oblivion.

Right now?  I just don't care.

Why not?  Well, it's that time again.  No, not the delightful monthly rendezvous with my menses -- I'm talking about the cyclical emotional recession every struggling artist, and pseudo-artist alike, must go through in this screwed up endeavor to make our dreams come true.  In other words, a slump.

This is when it physically hurts to be optimistic, when you're too tired to smile, and when you just don't give a freakin' hoot.  Ironically, I've actually booked a couple of jobs with this crappy attitude, so take THAT, self-help books!

Now, I know it's not just me and that I shouldn't check myself into a psych ward (for this, at least).  I once met a working, professional actor who said that he would periodically quit the biz, then come back to it when he was good and ready.  Perhaps a good week or two off from all this constant rejection, b.s. and deflation of hope would do the trick.

Only, I just took a vacation (from which I feel I need a vacation), my manager dropped me over a month ago and I still haven't booked that amazingly fantastical, Oscar-bound feature film role that warrants me shouting, "IN YOUR FACE!" (in the privacy of my own room, of course), and the void left by my recently-deceased, darling grandmother hasn't exactly provided me with the energy to go out and get 'em.  In other words, it's been a while since I've worked.

Quitting just isn't an option.  Besides, I know I would only come crawling back to it like a spineless floozy who's just been kicked out onto the streets by her fat, domineering pimp.

So, I'm going to have to ride this out.  My drug of choice?  Sh*tty food combinations and sitcom-escapism.

Eventually, my body will tire of all these PopSecret butter popcorn bags, microwavable enchiladas, cans of grape soda and packages of Double Stuf Oreos.  And there's only so many episodes of "The Office" left to watch.   But for now, nom nom in my tummy and plop plop on my couch.

Besides, according to Isaac Newton and his glorious apple, what goes down must come up.  Oh.  Wait.  No.  According to him and that wretched apple, what is up must come down.

Well, forget that.  In my experience, life has proven to be a never-ending sine wave.  When you're riding high, it's inevitable that you'll soon tumble downhill and wind up in a trough.  Conversely, when you're stuck in a rut, it's a long, uphill climb back to the top, but you eventually make it.  And you relish that joyous feeling for all of two and a half days until the next ditch swallows you whole.  Or you die.  But that's beside the point and that hasn't happened to me yet.

My point is, I really shouldn't be worrying about anything right now.  If anything, I should be excited because, according to my theory, something good is on its way.  I'm down in the dumps, which means I've no other direction to head in but that of success!  If this were a post about how insanely elated I was that I just booked a prime time television series, however, it'd be a different story altogether.  I'd be worrying about them breaking their contract and replacing me after only one episode or some imminent, horrible car accident or my hair catching on fire or a cockroach crawling into my mouth in the middle of my slumber and laying 800 eggs...the list goes on and on, and I've got a pretty wild imagination so it's a pretty long list.  

So, for now, I'm going to sit and smile about my future happiness until my burgeoning pot belly prompts me to actually get up and go attain that future happiness.

Time for another Oreo.       


P.S.: I know it may sound as if I'm rotten and have nothing better to complain about in the absence of real problems, but I am extremely grateful for the people in my life and for where I am today.  I'm just a bitch sometimes and I like to whine.  This month-and-a-half-long headache and the incredibly energetic, incessantly stomping Chinese kids who live in the apartment above me aren't helping much either.  I like Mexican food.  The end.