Ugh. Matinées. My one true enemy. Squatting right in the middle of my day, forcing me out of bed at a decent hour like I’m some kind of normal human adult. Gross. I got into theatre in this, the glorious age of the electric light, so as to avoid daytime altogether, and you, matinée, are harshing my nocturnal mellow. Plus, who really wants to see a matinée of Carrie anyway? I mean, apparently a lot of people, because the house is like 70% sold, but shut up, it was rhetorical.
It’s a double-header today as well. If you include last night’s show, that means three Margaret Whites in 26 hours. So you’ll understand if I’m mute and/or dead tomorrow.
Facebook keeps showing me ads for engagement rings and divorce lawyers, because I guess I need to hurry up and hit every single kind of relationship milestone before I turn thirty, which is in LESS THAN EIGHT MONTHS OH MY SWEET LORD JESUS HOW DID THAT HAPPEN.
That’s enough of you, NaBloPoMo; I’ve got a BART train to catch.