I love drama. Not real drama - no, no, no, that I leave Katrina Darling Twin o' Mine to deal with - but the stage. Acting, singing, set design, props - heaven. I can be geeky and dorky and sing off key on purpose, and it's all part and parcel to being a Thespian.
But I seriously hate Little Shop of Horrors.
Why? Because meltdowns suck. No chorus concert, part in a play, or church choir solo has ever made me have a meltdown. Until Little Shop. Oh, final number, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways . . .
Alright, well, maybe it isn't totally the play's fault. *cough*mostly is*cough* The blame could be equally spread to me failing an AP English Lit test, having to dodge an egg experiment in Physical Science again, staying up until 12 AM, having to re-paint a poster prop, and the director, Ms Gale, not telling me what to do in the final scene when I'd asked her two days in a row already and having to ask other, equally clueless students to get even a vague idea.
So, yeah, I've been kinda 'fragile' emotionally the past few days. Thus, the walking out of the scene unnoticed to have a silent crying jag leaning on the baby grand in the non-wings. (Smart School my cat.) Thankfully, only the guy playing Twoey, Solomon, noticed, and he's great - left me alone when I asked and everything. Katy did, too, of course - but she's my best friend and has the attention span of a squirell on crack, so it was inevitable that she'd get distracted from running into the audience and hide out backstage to get a Pepsi.
All this equals out to, in my mind, Little SHop having free reign to go suck an egg. A rotten egg. Because if I get pissed off at Ms Gale, she can boot me out very easily. I'm just an extra, after all - actual parts require Senior privileges. Cue teenage eyeroll multiplieed by a thousand and six. Because it's a nice, odd number.
Suddenly craving an exactly even number of potato chips,
- Janie L.
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