So—Northwestern audition tomorrow. And I’m pretty sure that should scare me into practicing my 210 lb. ass off for the next month. I’m sitting here in underwear and heels, wondering why I fit into a skirt I hadn’t managed to squish into since October. Wondering how I’ll keep my hair out of my face and how I’ll get through this entire Bach fugue.
I called Jeff for moral support and that didn’t go as well as I had hoped/anticipated it would. I’m surprised he didn’t wish me luck, although I did forget the date of his senior recital last year. He got my package (apparently I wrote the zip-code incorrectly, and I’m sure it didn’t help that I addressed it to “Jeffawry”) and was nice enough and is playing in a concert conducted by Itzak Perlman this week and I am infinitely jealous and miss him and am sure it will be terribly, but routinely awkward (flashback) when I see him in a few weeks. But also—good. He is so fantastically busy and practices too much.
In case anyone wants to know what I’ll be wearing on my escapade to Boston (for which I embark in a few hours)—well, it’s a shirt, and it’s made of black. I don’t think that I’ve spent more than an hour with my father in nearly a year. I think I’ll be in need of a cigarette. Or a drag[-queen]. (If only for [comic] relief)
And last week was made of peanut-butter cups, and tomorrow will be made of bananas. And I don’t need any beta-blockers yet, but I’m sure that by the time my NEC audition rolls around, I’ll be craving a Xanax muffin.