Remember that time that I get to do new and exciting
theater? The time that I get to play an amazing part based on an actual woman
who was a total badass? And remember that time that I haven’t had to learn new
music for anything in over a year….? (Record scratch sound for emphasis please)
But seriously...no idea. |
That’s right. I am out of shape. Woefully out of shape. When
your body is out of shape, you can tell. You can feel it, you can see it. It’s
wicked obvious. Like this here,
usually that man possess an ass that I want to gently gnaw on, here I want to
take his blood pressure because I’m genuinely concerned.
I think there's probs an "I am the Fatman" joke that can be made here, but I don't want to make too much fun of someone who was once arrested for assault...of his own mother. |
I’m vocally fat.
I am vocally picked last for dodge ball.
My voice is stained with Cheeto dust and code red mountain
dew.
I think sometimes that I have a bizarre form of seasonal
affective disorder, I’m fine with the winter, I love winter, scarves are great
and I have a fur collection that would make a hairless cat jealous. No, in
August I become a hideous zombie that drags its ass around. I don’t know if
it’s the weather or that there aren't any holidays in august (except my
birthday which is totes a holiday) but my brain just turns off. It’s like in
some sort of awful sleep mode. Which means now the time has come for
rehearsal and I have to dust off the cobwebs and add some wd-40. I need a
training montage for my brain, but you can’t just put it in a grey sweat suit
and expect it to box meat in a deep freezer. I have to hop in and stretch and
condition or I’m going to get left behind in the dust.
Oh ya, and I have to find clothes for everyone…
Except for Patrick Bateman. He gets no clothes. |