devils on my shoulder make me cry...

I suppose words should come tonight.

My breasts hurt.

Besides that fun and tromping about the mall of america wishing I had a piercing that I could stick a really large metal object through, I don't supose anything is new since I returned from the door. There are not enough daylight hours after 10am to get all my work shit done. But I wanted this. Not the work for the sake of work, but the theatre life. And I wanted it because I have nothing else to occupy my time. Bordem and sexual frustration and worrying about that which I can't change consumes me when I don't have this work. I guess that is what attracts a work-o-holic to a 24-7 job. I need a union.

I need a couple of years in the woods, alone, surviving. I don't know what I need. I wish I could convince myself that nothing really matters. That the lack of love is really ok. That independance is REALLLY better than dependance. That I really do want a tattoo as a proof of my mortality. That it is ok if I am not having sex. That it's ok if I haven't allowed myself to go skiing, rollerblading, or running in years because I am working on my career. I wish I felt more alive. What does it feel like to forget your troubles and come on get happy?

Why do I always step outside myself and look on, like the worst devil of all. God this is dreary. It must be bedy timey.