So, I have this little problem. I like to call it "Sleep Rage."
You know how at the end of the movie "Hook," Tinkerbell whispers to Peter Pan "You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan."
Well, Tink, that place is sometimes where I feel like killing people.
When I'm asleep and something, or someone wakes me up, there is a period of time, before I am fully conscious, mind you, where I am completely and justifiably (to myself) homicidal towards that something or someone.
I've thought of killing, or at least injuring some of my very best friends because they've talked loudly, made noise or done something to wake me from my slumber.
This is probably a bad thing. Now, take all this with a grain of salt. I never really have thought of killing anyone. I just really really really really really really really really really really really really really really reallyreallyreally want them to get out of the world.
That's all.
And then I become just a liiiitle more conscious, and I realize...that I'm still irritated, but less homicidal.
Then I become just a liiiiitle more conscious than that, and then I realize that I'm awake and there's nothing I can do about it, and oh well.
And then, and only then, sometimes, does the Sleep Rage end.
Photo found on Hyperbole and a Half.
P.S. I realize how fully crazy this post makes me sound. I guess I am. Sorry bout it.
Yes yes, the plight of all college students. It's a very common story. They get to that point where they realize that college doesn't last forever, graduation is rapidly approaching, and they still have no idea what they want to do.
I'm in the Acting Program at BYU. It took me 2 years to get in. Two years of stress and playing the Game, and doing everything I could just to make it in.
I'm in.
I'm in...now what?
I have no idea. During a recent theater trip to LA, we were able to do a Q&A with a large group of actors who were friends and colleagues of my teachers. They described the process and the way that an actor "makes it" in LA.
It's not for me. It's just not for me.
And it got me thinking...what is for me? What do I want to do? What do I do with this mostly practically useless degree and incredibly impractical career choice of mine?
Then, while listening to the Pocahontas soundtrack the other morning, I had a small ephiphany about the kind of person I am. And I realized I'm not really the leading lady type. (not in theatre, but in Life. Capital L for dramatic effect.)
Get ready for this one guys, this is embarrassing.
Because, really, if my life was Pocahontas, I would be Nakoma. The friend. The placid, complacent, platitudinous, prosaic best friend. The one who doesn't like to make waves, or even ripples, really. I don't dive off of waterfalls, or have animal friends, or talk to trees. I don't risk it all to be different or to go against the grain. I'm not ambitious. I don't have any grand schemes, or plans. I don't feel any burning need to change the world, or change the way things work. Sometimes being Nakoma makes me not very fun, sometimes it makes me afraid to take risks, sometimes it makes me miss opportunities.
Look at that face. The disapproval. Yikes.
The question is: Shouldn't I be the leading lady of my own life?
Can't be I be Pocahontas, canoeing bravely around river bends, singing with those mountain voices, defying the conventions, changing the world, having a hot bod and ridiculous hair and a sweet tattoo? I mean, look at this woman!
Stop it Pocahontas, you're fabulous. No, really, stop.
I don't know exactly what conclusion I've come to about this discovery. Right now I'm halfway between understanding that this is the way I am, and being this way isn't necessarily a bad thing, and being at peace with my Nakoma-ness; and knowing that I've got to start making some fundamental changes in myself in order to better serve my life and future.
But mostly...I just feel like this:
So basically, I have no answer. This was pretty stream of consciousness. (Conscious? I was never taught grammar properly.) I guess that this is just life, finding out where you fit in; which character molds you fit into, which you combine, which you stretch, and which you break. I also guess that life is blindly stumbling along, trying your best to have faith even though you're terrified....cause that's what I'm doing. Yikes.
Now, watch this video. This song is ridiculously wonderful. It'll make you feel good.
Moral of the story: Pocahontas is my favorite Disney movie.
And I'm lame for making this extended of a metaphor about myself from animated Disney characters.
Ok. So I'd just like to send a big, fat this song:
To this guy:
Yeah Kurt. I'm being sappy. Deal.
Don't be embarrassed. Ok?
He's unbelievable. I punch (typo, but it was funny, so I kept it) myself everyday to make sure I'm not dreaming that he's my wonderful, hilarious, loving, silly boyfriend and bestfriend.
He hates Valentine's day, but I don't care.
Happy Valumtime's, Dear.
Thanks for being better and more best than any boyfriend that I could possibly imagine.
It's true. I've made it around the Sun one more time. I'm now 21.
21 is (I know I know) very young.
However, it cannot be denied as a landmark.
I think that despite 20 being the first age out of the teens, 21 is the first year of real adulthood.
Adulthood.
Yuck.
I am currently in the city of Angels. In an angelically beautiful, if swankily inadequate hotel.
(aka no continental breakfast. which I was counting on saving and eating for at least two of the days' meals.)
I am at an acting and theatre festival.
Ever get the birthday blues?
They're not even necessarily blues. The blues that, for a lack of a better term, make you feek vaguely discontent and squirmy inside, and all for reasons that you can't explain.
I had an emotional tearful outburst at the end of today, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.
I had a beautiful day today. A group of BYU kids decided to go to Disneyland. I hitched a ride in the van and got picked up by my wonderful sister-in-law and niece and spent a wonderful day with them.
I saw dolphins, guys. Dolphins.
They said "happy birthday" to me. Kind of.
I don't know why birthdays incite such strange emotions in people. or maybe just me? I don't know. It maybe that I miss my family. It may be spending so much time with my niece made me emotional. It may be that leaving her made me sad. It may be that I miss my boyfriend. It may be that talking to a group of recognizable professional actors tonight in a Q&A made me question my fundamental fitness for the acting profession. And it very well may be that I dropped my wallet in the restroom of a Chevron gas station in Fillmore, Utah, while trying to avoid a very large puddle of vomit from a very small girl, and it had yet to come back to me in the mail, despite the assurance that it has been sent...
But I think, in addition to all of these things, my brilliant friend Mariah said that birthdays always feel weird because there's always an expectation of change, which never really happens. You never ever really feel different on your birthday. You always wake up thinking "I'm a year older, do I feel any different?" and then you never do, and then you always end up feeling vaguely dissatisfied with the day, however great the day was.
So, I had a good cry. A good laughy cry with big fat teardrops, and re-crys and big, frustrated hand gestures, and hugs. Then I went down to the beautiful gym on the fourth floor of the hotel, and ran really hard for 30 minutes. And then I felt like I wanted to throw up a little. And then I took a shower and got in my clean, white hotel-y bed and sat with my damp hair on my pillow, feeling refreshed, clean and tired, and wrote a badly written blog.
I feel better. I love so so many people of my life, family and friends, and cannot believe how well they take care of me, and deal with me, and love me. I am so grateful to them.
