Has every chickee in the world written in a diary? Gawd the last time I wrote a journal entry about me was for some lame English class in college. Before that, I still had pink clothing, some with frills. My mother thought I was some sort of Asian Barbie doll; I swear. And her taste in wardrobing was bad enough to blind a flamingo. I seem to have recovered fairly unscathed, though. Or perhaps that explains the preponderance of black black black in my closet.
Mostly recovered from Fantasm (which ROCKED). We had so much fun Matthew threw his back out. Poor Matthew! But, on an up note, he’s been spending a lot of his down time putting together his Fantasm 2002 convention review for our website. And I’ve got a tiara! I never thought I’d own a tiara. Shiny shiny. Wonder if I can stick “Ms. Fantasm 2002” on my resume? Um. Probably shouldn’t. Down that path lies clanging metal leg traps.
Getting ready for my belly dance show tomorrow night. Had a scary moment on Wednesday when I ran through the choreography for the first time in a week for my solo number. Apparently the brain cells I killed over the weekend were those shimmies. Urk. But, thank godlettes, I do appear to have redundant neural pathways. A couple run throughs and I’m back on track. Dress rehearsal tonight. Makeup like greasepaint in bright, searing colors. Whee.
Don’t have any ideas for new stories hammering on my door. Damn. But I can’t complain. Managed to crank out and complete three of ’em in as many weeks. That counts as productive. Really it does. Maybe if I really screw up my solo tomorrow, the staggeringly traumatic experience will fuel my muse. Something to look forward to. Uh huh.
Must. Eat. Lunch.
Ta ta from Ms. Fantasm 2002! (Nope, still not tired of calling myself that.)
