So, I figured out a few things after feeling like this month was a complete waste.
I expected that writing about all that stuff from my past would be cathartic, would help me to get past some thing that have happened even recently. But, honestly, it just dredged up a bunch of crappy memories and forced me to go into detail about them. So, that was a bust.
Honestly, I think it was the wrong venue. No one-man-show could hold all of that. I needed a novel...a memoir. Trying to stage something without being able to see it or know that people could portray all the emotions there...it's hard. It doesn't work. I would have needed pages and pages of stage direction just to get through it. But I skipped all that. I just let it speak for itself.
Do you know what it said?
*pthththththththtbbbbb* It blew a big raspberry at me. But it waited 29 days to do so.
So...maybe the right sentiment, but the wrong medium.
This is one of those projects they're going to publish after I die and it'll win a Tony or something...ugh.
And now I'm feeling chapped. No wonder, since I basically masturbated onto the page for a month. Blech. But it was a learning experience. I keep telling myself that. Maybe it'll stick.
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