Not a happy camper.

Just got home from doing two shows of Rocky Horror. I pumped myself full of a generic cocktail of pseudo ephedrine, Ibuprofen and delivered a particularly manic and somewhat nasal rendition of Riff Raff twice. The audience was great and enjoyed the show. You gotta love coastal towns. They all get so hammered I'm sure they would've given a wet fart a standing ovation. Okay so I'm feeling a little cranky. I think doing the time warp in heels four times in one day with a head cold qualifies me for that. I don't quite feel like sitting in a corner rocking myself and playing Sade's King of Sorrow on repeat. But I'm not exactly a box of sunshine cuddles either. Things haven't been going the way I'd hoped but I think I am dealing well with the disappointment. What is freaking me out is that I am finally going to be getting a one man show to start running hopefully by mid October and although I know I've procrastinated enough the thought makes me feel like I could lose the rushed dinner I had between the two shows. It terrifies me and I'm not even sure why. I would hate to spend the rest of my life just surviving and being mediocre. But, how very daunting the prospect of carrying and maintaining the responsibility of possibly being a true success also seems to be. My sentences are getting too long. Over and out.