Running Out of Time

In a fit of, "what if I need to wear not-pants after I move?" I tried on a skirt that I bought in college.  I wore it to run box office for Rocky Horror, and may have worn it once more.  It looks better on me today than it did when I was 20.  I think I feel better about myself than I have since I was 19.

I have four days.  There are a million things I haven't done.  I will do them.... Tomorrow.

When I sit down and think about it, I know everything is going to be OK.  Because even if it isn't, I have the power to make it OK.  I've done it before, I can do it again.

I've committed myself to two projects: Instagram the experience for people in Iowa who will care for approximately a week and a half, play a D&D campaign run by the only friend I know I have in the city.  I'm going to wind up owing him a lot, I think.  Both of these are part of a larger commitment to learn the city and make friends.  Say yes.  A lot.

I'd like to write.  Actually write.  For the theatre?  Except not by myself and not a script.  ...I want to *make* theatre, but writing's the most valuable contribution I can make to that process until I stop being a chicken.

Burr's willing to wait for it.  Hamilton's running out of time.  I like to think that I vacillate between the two of them, but, I'm not.  Neither am I Angelica.  I'm...  tense.  My jaws, my shoulders, my thighs- it's pretty bad.  If I relax, do I lose my grip on myself?  Do I give in to the voices telling me this is stupid?  Maybe.