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Tuesday, August 2, 2011
That's an understatement. I'm ransacked. Like a house that's been burgled, I'm strewn willy-nilly 'round the room, everything turned inside out.
It's almost time for the new show to open, and I'm feeling helpless as I face the night when I have to let go, let be, and walk away.
I'm feeling paranoid, too, like I'm in certain people's sights with a target on my back, an eight-point buck.
I was driving one of my actors to rehearsal last night and moaning about my troubles.
He said, "You get like this on every show."
"Oh, yeah. Usually worse. You're getting better."
"You think I'm better? Really?"
All I really want to do is sleep, though.
Wait. Wasn't that what I was doing a few weeks ago when I told my doctor there was something wrong with me?
Is there something always to be wrong with me?
Will I never know contentment?
Where the hell is my bliss?