At Long Last

This morning, I awoke from my misery-filled slumber to find an inbox surprise: an audition.  Yeah, it’s been a while.

The logical reaction?  Excitement!  Jubilation!  Joyous merriment jamboree!  A raindance-esque celebration ceremony ensues in which I proclaim my love for the art, my devotion to the steadfast belief that if you stay positive, good things will happen and in which I bask in the almighty power of the rejuvenation of the soul.

The literal reaction?  Uh…do I have to?  *scowl* *sigh* *grumble grumble*

This audition totally messes up my flow.  Day after day of moping around and questioning the purpose of my existence gets kinda comfortable after a while, ya know?  I can’t have this pesky speed bump on my depressive road to self-destruction suddenly pop up and throw me out of my comfort zone.  It could lead to productiveness and even (God forbid…) success. 

Sometimes, artists and pseudo-artists spend so much time dealing with rejection and closed doors that they curl up into their own heads like wiggly little worms and keep curling up tighter and tighter until there’s no easy way to unwind themselves if the opportunity ever arose, and if it ever did, they’d be too exhausted from all the curling up to take it anyway. 

And why should they?  Anyone with half a brain would understand that they’re leaving the nice, warm, dark little shelter they’ve created for themselves to re-enter the dodgeball tournament that is the entertainment industry.      

So, no.  No, no, no, no, no.  You’re not going to suck me back in, audition.  I’m smarter than that.  I don’t need you to reject me because I can simply reject myself!  Ha! 

But, then again...yes.  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.  It’s common knowledge that all actors are completely batty.  As such, they view this seemingly (and most likely literally) unwinnable little game of ‘hard to get’ as a completely conquerable daily activity.  While most sane people would count their blessings and quit while they’re ahead, [pseudo-] artists will continuously jump face first into the flaming, projectile monkey sh!t festival until they drop dead from some sort of bacterial infection, or perhaps from lack of showering. 

Sometimes, you’re stupid and you know it.  But, what the heck.  Tighten my saddle, hand me my riding boots, and call me stupid.  I’m going to an audition.