Yeesh. This place gets pretty filthy when no one’s around to clean it up. It smells like ass. And corn chips. Mixed together. In a bucket of shame and abandonment.

I would like the entire Internet to know that I have only had one cup of coffee this morning and that everything sounds like I’m underwater after seeing 38 Special last night with my family. I would also like the entire Internet to know that I have the biggest audition of my career so far on Wednesday and I have yet to finish writing my monologues.

THAT’S RIGHT, INTERNET. I AM WRITING MY OWN MONOLOGUES, for several reasons.

Uno: I am suicidal. And I thrive under pressure. And then I cave. And cry. And get sick. And then thrive again. And then cave.

Dos: I can never find a decent monologue. Ever. I hate looking for monologues. I hate auditioning with a monologue. Give me a script, a side, SOMETHING and I will go for it. But make me find a monologue, try and convey enough emotion and character into a minute and then make me memorize it and do it in front of people? I hate you.

Tres: While searching for a monologue last Sunday, I got so distracted and pissy with not being able to find the perfect one. I was irritated and everything I read felt fake and stupid and made me roll my eyes. So I says to myself, I says “Self? FUCK IT. Go do something else for a while. Hey! Go work on that book you’ve been writing. See how that feels instead.” And since my choice of comfort from the HORRIFIC MONOLOGUE SEARCHING TASK was writing, I said to myself, “Self? Could you be any more clueless? WRITE A MONOLOGUE.”

We are all on the same page that these conversations with myself happened LAST Sunday, right? As in a damn week ago? And that we’re now 3 days away from this huge ass audition and I am still trying to write?

Please refer to Reason Uno.

So I would like to blame my poor website maintenance skills on all that MONOLOGUE WRITING I’ve been doing, but that would be a pile of HORSE SHIT (as in “This wedding is HORSE SHIT.” And if you haven’t seen Stepbrothers, you’re DEAD TO ME). Mainly, I’ve had my head stuck in the clouds. I’ve been doing a lot of reading and relaxing and daydreaming because I’ve had so much going on in this brain of mine. That sucker’s been on fire lately and I thought my personal life was hanging by a thread for a little bit there.

Scratch that. I still feel like my personal life is hanging by a thread. And I have no idea what to do about it. It’s making me sick and it’s making it hard to relax and have an easy night’s rest, but I just don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’m also being very vague and that’s stupid, too. But let’s just say that audition stress + relationship stress + financial stress = nausea. That, my friends, is an equation made of GOLD.

Now, back to this MONOLOGUE WRITING BUSINESS.

Gah. I woke up with such an annoying headache. It’s not like blinding pain or staggering in the sunshine while holding my temples so my brain doesn’t spill out on the sidewalk. It’s just annoying as SHIT. (Almost as annoying as learning that my newest baby cousin has been named Jack which is what I have always said I was going to name my first baby boy and oh well, guess we’ll have two Jacks in the family now . . . ahem.)

I did have half a glass of wine last night, but really? HALF A GLASS? I also didn’t go to bed until 1:00ish and woke up several times in the middle of the night to be haunted by the blue glow of the TV and HEY, while we’re on that subject . . . who chose blue as the color? Is that just what happens when certain electronics are put together to make a television set? Or was there like a committee that had to go through all the colors to figure it out? “Red? No, no. It will bathe the room with its light and remind everyone of menstruation. Yellow? No, too bright. And what about the Jews? It might remind them of Easter. Purple? . . . what, are you gay?”

I did however stay on the phone for about three hours and wow. I haven’t done that since high school. The cell phone poisoning has probably nuked part of my brain. I’m sure there’s a slightly charred slab of brain matter just sitting on either side of my skull, thanks to the heat permeating off of my Blackberry. See? This is why high schoolers can’t get their homework done or remember to count up the points for the Thespian Society. It’s not because we’re talking on the phone. It’s because we’ve been POISONED.

Where was I going with this?

OH. So! My headache! It could’ve been a consequence of the wine, the late night television IV or the brain frying, but I’m going to guess that it was because of my dream. My dream that involved me personally knowing and being really good friends with Matt Damon, George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio and I think there was someone else, yet their name escapes me. The point IS, I actually had a dream about three gorgeous, incredible actors and they all adored me.

Because here’s the thing, secretly? I believe I’m supposed to be part of that group. It boggles my mind to know that Robert Downey Jr. doesn’t know who I am. I feel like I’m going to be a part of this group of actors, this guild of people I admire and respect and am constantly inspired by. Is that not the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard? All of my life, I’ve felt like I belonged with them. That I belong with the Oscar nominees and the Spielberg casts and the Universal Studios lot. And I know that sounds so weird, but hey. I’m weird. So it all works out.

ANYWAY. I can’t remember all of the details of the dream, but I was at the store. I was upstairs, looking over the banister to the registers and aisles below. My friend Austin was there and I remember talking to him, so it was kind of like I was still at Sketchworks. People were coming in and saying hi to me just like at the theater and I was hugging everyone and telling them I missed them. And then, Matt Damon walks up to me and says “Hey girl!” and gives me this huge hug. I was dancing as I was hugging him and kept squealing “OH MY GOD, YOU CAME!” and when he leaned back he gave me a quick kiss and then . . . INSTANTLY dropped his smile. “Oh baby, your breath,” he whispered. I shrugged my shoulders and said “Yeah, sorry. I just had a Coke, it always gives me bad breath!” He laughed, told me he’d see me later and then walked off.

So THEN, I’m walking down the stairs and George Clooney comes walking up to me. “Sammy baby!” He reaches over and grabs me and pulls me into his arms. And okay, I know that in normal George Clooney dreams, I should have melted into a puddle and asked him to marry me. BUT, in this dream, it was like we were just old friends. Like I belonged. He gave me a kiss and pulled back, then said “Oh, that breath!” The fact that I was not embarrassed by Matt Damon and George Clooney telling me my breath was stank is a true testament to how great we all are as BFFs. COME ON. I laughed and said “Coca-Cola! See you later!” and continued on my merry way.

So THEN. I’m walking down this hallway and all of a sudden I’m backstage of some huge theater and Leo DiCaprio comes walking up with a few people behind him. He’s dressed as his character from Shutter Island (which was amazing; run, don’t walk) and when he sees me, his face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Sam!” He runs up and picks me up off the ground and while he’s still holding me, he gives me the wettest kiss ever. He sets me back down and says “Whoa . . . what’s wrong with your breath?” I smile back at him and say “I just had a Coke! Sorry!”

And then I woke up.

POP QUIZ!

What have we determined from all of this?

1. That we are all destined to be the greatest of friends.

2. That I do belong with the most incredible actors to ever grace a movie screen and that I shall be greeted with lots of kisses and happiness.

3. That of course I should dream about sexy men kissing me and commenting on my nasty breath. OF COURSE I SHOULD.

4. That I should never drink another Coca-Cola again.

The jury is still out on this one.

#1
I have no idea who Bjork is. I just looked him . . . HER up. Have I heard her music before? I don’t know. I’m not sure. I thought she invented that baby sling thing which I’m learning is called a Baby Bjorn. Hi. I really am this misguided.

#2
I didn’t watch the Oscars this year. Because I am a bad bad actress/cinephile/movie fan. I KNOW. I don’t know why I didn’t. It’s always really inspiring to watch and I always plan a huge Oscar party and then never buy anything for it or invite anyone. I guess because I felt like it was almost an obligation to watch? And I don’t like obligations? Because I’m a fucking rebel?

#3
When I was younger, around 9 or so, I used to make movie posters. They were always movies I made up, starring me and I would do the drawings and the tag lines and even the credits at the bottom. I can remember making one called Material Girl: Based off the Madonna song. The tag line was something like: “This is my 80th date this month!” and even after I came up with the line, I tried to decipher how it would even be POSSIBLE to have 80 dates in a month. You’d have to do like 2.5 a day or something. And that’s when I realized the power of movies: It doesn’t have to be real.

#4
I have two indentations on the back of my head. When I put my hand back there and act like I’m pulling my head out of a mud puddle or something, my hand fits in those indentations perfectly. It makes me wonder if when I was being born, someone grabbed my malleable Play-Doh baby skull with one hand or a pair of forceps. My mom denies it, but the indentations are there, people. EVIDENCE.

#5
I once came up with a country song when I was sevenish. I can remember thinking up the tune and the lyrics while looking out the left window of my mom’s big ass red van, the one that had chewing gum shoved in the air conditioning vent in the backseat. I sang it all the time and I still remember every line to this day. It goes like this:

. . . yeah, okay. Maybe that one should still be a secret.

Oh my God, if this cough does not vacate the premises immediately, I will have to make a < Barney Fife voice > CITIZEN’S ARREST! < / Barney Fife voice > I’m tired of laying down and not being able to stop the coughs erupting from my chest. I feel like a little kid when they get sick. How they just sort of cough like it’s the hiccups or something? They just randomly come bursting out of my mouth and then I get all phlegm-y and have to hock and grunt and clear my throat and then cough again. When I lay down, even breathing tickles my throat and makes me want to cough.

Isn’t this like the croup? That thing little kids get where they just cough all night from deep within their thirty pound bodies? I’m pretty sure that’s what I have. So someone needs to come lose all their sleep, too and hold me in a steamy shower until it’s gone. Hugo Stiglitz, perhaps? I heard he’s available.

It’s just that I’m never sick. Ever. And I knock on wood as I say that, but it’s the TROOF. I have a bad-ass immune system and I’m pretty sure it’s from all those years as a kid when I ran around in diapers and would hide medicine Mom gave me under the couch cushions. That’s a big reason why I’m so freaked out by people who make their kids carry anti-bacterial gel and won’t let them go outside without socks on or touch a toy they’ve found in a neighbor’s yard. You have to expose your kids to germs so that their bodies can build a defense for them. It’s a simple as that!

. . . says the 21 year-old girl with no children.

In other Would You Like Some Cheese With That Whine News . . . IT’S RAINING! AGAIN! HA HA HA oh Georgia weather, you just slay me, ya just SLAY ME. We had four beautiful days of waaaaarm sunshine-y weather. And I spent all four of those days either 1. at work, 2. miserable and coughing in bed, 3. at the theater. Hey, I’m not bitter. I’m just letting you know the facts. Just the facts, ma’am.

It rained all day yesterday, even thundering and lightning a bit. And while I’m normally a big fan of overcast, dreary weather, I am not a fan of every crazy within a 20 mile radius coming to buy liquor BECAUSE of the weather. God, you should see the way people act! They come in the store, soaked to the bone, shivering and bitch and moan about the weather. . . . dude, you just drove your ark here for BEER. And some mango flavored blunt wraps. I’ve had enough of your sass.

I wish we could hand out bars of soap with every purchase on rainy days. Maybe then some of my not-so-roses-smelling customers could take a goddamn BATH. It kills me, people. IT KILLS ME. There is no reason for you to smell like that and still get out of bed every morning to drive to my store. And it’s always the same people! It’s not like sometimes they just skipped a shower or they woke up late or whatever. No. THEY ARE ALLERGIC TO WATER, IT IS OBVIOUS. Also? Colt 45 and Christian Brothers brandy and Barton vodka make up 98% of fluids in their body. The other 2% is some kind of sweaty goo juice plus gingivitis and it is necessary for them to coat all of their money and coins in it. And then hand it to me.

Today? I shall cough on them.

PS. Um so Conan O’Brien is going to be here June 14th. Here as in my bed? HA HA YOU SO SILLY AND I LIKE WAY YOU THINK, but no. As in Atlanta. The Fox. Doing . . . stand-up, I guess. To be honest, he could drink liquor and smell like rotting fish, I don’t care, I just have to see that hair in person.

Most people don’t know this, but umm . . . sometimes I’m really sensitive and shit. Like, super sensitive. And um hey! Sometimes? I take things wayyy too personally. And I’m very much aware of it. I know I’m being a whiny bitch when I ask you why you’re not paying attention to me when you’re writing an email. Or why I say “You just don’t want to hang out with me!” when really, you just have to go to work.

But even though I know that I’m acting this way and that it’s without merit, I can’t help it. There is some chemical imbalance in me that says NO ONE LOVES YOU AND THEY ARE PURPOSELY TRYING TO HURT YOUR FEELINGS. It’s a tough job, but that chemical imbalance does it WELL. I call it the Whack Job. Or The Hurt Locker. Whatever.

I’ve realized that I’m a wee bit selfish sometimes. And that I want to be #1 in everyone’s life. I want to be the person that someone drops everything for to spend an evening with or someone who will reschedule their entire week so that they can spend an extra day with me. And hey, newsflash, ass wipe! Some people don’t have a choice. Some people have kids to attend to and other friends to see and school to go to and meetings they can’t miss and maybe you should get some other hobbies and quit depending on everyone else.

I think that’s what it all boils down to: Remembering that I can do things alone. It’s been so long since I’ve gone to a movie by myself or spent a quiet night with some construction paper and ribbon and made something. I haven’t even really looked for a monologue and my big huge audition for 60-something (amount not age!) casting directors which is in exactly THREE WEEKS. All this time I’ve spent moping, refreshing Twitter and then beating everybody up for it is dumb. I could have found a monologue or made that baby card I keep thinking about or finish a story or GOD SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE.

It’s weird. Most people look at their pre-teen and teenage years as “learning” years. Those are the years that you’re supposed to grow and become an independent person and learn to stand on your own two feet and make decisions for yourself. Folks, I’ve had a total regression.

You could not find a more confident middle schooler than me. Sure, I was shy and I was pretty yellow-bellied a lot of the times, but dude. I knew what the hell I was doing. I told my 6th grade boyfriend that I couldn’t say “I love you”, because what do I know about love? I’m way too young for that shit. I didn’t care what ANYONE said about me. I used to take my mom’s old books to school and proudly set them on my desk, sneaking in pages during class. One of my favorites was a book called The Book of Heroines, 1977 or something. It was like those old British annuals my mom loved and it was a book full of heroines. I can remember stories about these young British queens (I think one story was Queen Anne after Edward died? Maybe not, I can’t remember.) and the story of Marie Curie, the chemist. A boy asked me if it was a book about drugs (because of the heroine, get it HA HA HA) and I remember getting so angry with him and telling him he was so immature, he just didn’t GET IT.

What happened to that girl? I now routinely hide books I’m reading under my arms or in my purse so that no one can make fun of me for that Lucille Ball autobiography. I’m terrified of going somewhere I’ve never been before, even if I’m with Jason or Emily or Tyler. The anxiety I feel over auditions is similar; it’s beyond performance nerves and excitement. It’s all about Will I be able to find a parking space? Will there be really beautiful girls in the waiting room? Am I what they’re looking for? OH GOD WHY ME.

I want to be that 11-year-old girl who just didn’t give a shit and was so happy to be herself. I didn’t care that I was nerdy and liked to read. I didn’t care that I liked N*SYNC when all the “cool girls” didn’t. I didn’t care that people looked at me like I was crazy when I said I was going to be an actress. I just didn’t care.

I can’t remember when it all changed. About 11th grade, I think. Which is about the time that I lost all trust in one single boy and I think that’s when my world came crashing down. Isn’t that sad? Before that I can remember sewing my own dress for a Lucille Ball costume while watching old movies and writing on LiveJournal. After that, it was all about getting him back and putting make-up on and throwing up over all those girls he was hanging out with instead of me.

WELL. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

I gotta get back to that girl. She’s somewhere under all this ANXIETYFEARWORRYREJECTIONJEALOUSY. How do I get her out? Dude. She must be SMOTHERING under there. And I have a feeling she won’t be appearing on any milk cartons until I make an effort to find her. Someone help me?

So, Thursday night, I had a revelation: When you realize the world is not a perfect place, there is no better solution than to watch “The Brady Bunch” because you can escape to a world that is a perfect place. Unless you’re a cute blond and you’ve got brand-new braces on your teeth and your parents and your brother and your maid all have to pay some cute boys to ask you out so you won’t feel so self-conscious.

God. That episode always makes me cry, Pa (and if you could imagine Laura Ingalls saying that, we’ll be TOP NOTCH).

ANYWAY, watching some classic television where all your problems are solved in 30 minutes and a laugh track is my favorite therapy. When Jason came home, we watched an episode of “Dexter” and then he pretty much just passed out. I finished another episode and then turned the TV off around 12:30, expecting to enter a sleep coma with dreams of bunnies, chocolate and rainbows (and mayyybe some Hugo Stiglitz, THAT’S A BINGO!).

But because someone out there had to rock my little world, I did not enter a sleep coma. Instead, I entered a Stephen King-esque mind movie where the One Character That Dies Before You Can Even Finish Off Your Car Battery Sized Coke was played by me. And this time, it doesn’t matter how big my boobs are, I’M THE ONE THE VILLAIN WANTS.

I had just shut my eyes when I started hearing noises. It sounded like a crow bar dinging against metal. You know what I’m talking about? Where it makes that little PING noise? Maybe like a hammer clinking with a windchime? I think the imagery is all the same: It sounded like some tool clinking against metal. BUT because I’ve had a big ol’ case of the PARANOIA this past week, it sounded very very much like a crowbar. And it was freaking me the fuck out.

So I tell myself that it’s probably the neighbors because they’re always working on a car or some shit out in the driveway. And yes, it’s late, but they’ve got super bright porch lights and they really don’t give a crap that the rest of the world is sleeping so I bet they are and OH MY GOD SOMEONE’S TRYING TO BREAK INTO TYLER’S TRUCK.

I seriously had to jump out of bed and check on the truck before laying back down. I peek out the blinds at the neighbor’s house, but I don’t see anything. From the front windows, the noise doesn’t sound as loud, so I tell myself I’ve got an immense helping of THE CRAZY and crawl back in the bed.

I try closing my eyes, I try imagining myself as a spy in a movie, doing some awesome stunt work in a car (What? Well, what do you dream about?), I cuddle up next to Jason, I crack my knuckles, I STILL HEAR THAT DAMN CROW BAR. WHAT THE FUCK.

At some point, I manage to fall asleep. And then I have this awful nightmare. I dream that I’m hearing a crowbar and it’s freaking me out. I can’t sleep and I’m laying in the exact same position that I am in non-dream-world. Then, I start to hear a drill. I realize that whoever is outside making that awful crowbar noise is now trying to drill through the window by my head so they can break into the house. I wake up Jason and as he crosses over me to the window, I start to fall off the bed very, very slowly, like I’m melting into a puddle on the floor. In the dream, I realize that I’m dreaming so I start trying to wake myself up and I CAN’T. And oh my God, is that not the worst feeling in the entire world? That you’re in a horrible nightmare and you so want it to be over and you know it’s not real, but you can’t leave? Jesus. SO ANYWAY. I wake up and then I’m sufficiently freaked out because that damn crowbar noise is still in the air and I’m sweating and I’ve just had a terrible nightmare and oh my God, we’re all going to die.

Okay. Okay, panic setting in. I can’t breathe. My chest is all tight. Oh my GOD, what are they doing with a crow bar? It sounds like it’s right outside the window. Can they see me? Are they dinging it so that I know they’re coming? Oh my God, are those footsteps? SHIT they’re walking to the truck, aren’t they? How in the HELL are they making that noise sound exactly the same? It’s so rhythmic. God, it’s driving me BANANAS. Why don’t they just break in already?! This is torture, worse than that old dripping water on a prisoner’s head thing! . . . wait. Waaaait. Dripping water? Didn’t I put a pot in the sink? Isn’t the faucet all wonky on that sink? DOESN’T IT DRIP IN A VERY RHYTHMIC FASHION THAT MAKES ME GO BANANAS? I bet when water hits a metal pot it sounds just like a crowbar dinging on a . . .

Fuck.

And allll of that just adds to the level of PISSED OFF I am about my car. I wouldn’t have nightmares and lose a night of sleep and constantly check on my car if some asshole hadn’t decided to try and take something that wasn’t his (or hers?). Everyone tells me “Oh, you’ll be okay,” and I know I will be and I really appreciate the assurance, but here’s the thing: No one should have to tell me that to begin with. I should never NOT be okay. And I truly think this is the first time in my life that I’ve realized that the world is not perfect. There are bad people out there who do bad things and get away with it. There are days when it’s going to pour and pour on me and I just have to wait out for the sunshine.

But, you know what? It’s been a week and I’m much better than I was. I had a great weekend at Sketchworks that ended with an awesome bonfire Saturday night with awesome friends and a bottle of Frangelico. Some events might rock my world and break my comfort zones and frighten me, but I always have people to tell me “You’ll be okay”. And I will be. I am.

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