over and out

Karaoke Wednesdays are my new favorite thing. This past Wednesday, we arrived at the Captain’s Chest greeted by a large crowd of young and old crooners alike. Miguel and I put our names in right away to get into the rotation early, in the hopes of having the opportunity to perform more than once. But as the crowd continued to grow, it seemed unlikely that we would be able to perform two songs before 10pm. Though, with the energy that was quickly filling the room, we weren’t too disappointed. As performer after performer took their turn at the microphone, we began to utilize the space in front of the staging area as a dance floor. I did a modernized version of the Jitterbug with one of the bar’s older patrons, and Ratha and I salsa danced to the sounds of Santana. We clapped and sang along throughout the evening, and Miguel and I offered to help cheer for a nervous performer singing "Always Something There to Remind Me," one of our favorites. As we whooped and hollered, he shot a thankful glance in our direction and gathered up the confidence to finish the song with style. The rest of the evening progressed nicely, and a room full of strangers quickly became friends over their shared love of song.

I thoroughly believe that music is good for the soul.

The weekend alternated between being utterly exhausting and loads of fun. Friday night was spent in the company of the roommates and old and new friends over a rousing game of Apples to Apples, which I love love love, at Albatross. Nothing beats word association games in an alcohol-induced haze.

Saturday was my first full-day rehearsal for Aida, during which we did staging and music review. After doing a few run-throughs of the ensemble numbers, I began to get chills from the intensity of the music. It will surely be a great show.

I spent a warm Sunday afternoon in the city shopping for birthday gifts with Miguel, scoping out the Metreon, and stopping by the San Francisco Theatre Festival at Yerba Buena gardens. Sitting on the grass and watching performers on stage reminded me of the summer of 2004 when I visited my friends in New York and stumbled upon a band playing in a park somewhere between here and who knows where. It was lovely and reaffirmed my love for the performing arts. Later that evening, we met up with Maegan and Ratha to usher for the "adult night" performance of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. It was incredible. The production was flawless, and the adult humor had me laughing throughout the entirety of the show. Racial stereotypes, countless sexual references, and an Asian Jesus: what else could we have asked for? I’m interested in seeing the original version of the show for comparison. I might just have to volunteer again.

Living on my own equates with independence in all sorts of forms. There’s the good, like planning an evening schedule that accommodates all the things I want it to, having the time to learn new things like cooking and how to plant a garden, and generally learning how to be a productive adult. Then there’s the bad, like paying more bills than I knew existed, fixing things that I didn’t know could break, and getting rid of bugs.

I don’t like bugs.

I like to think of myself as a kind-hearted person. So having to become my own bug exterminator doesn’t agree with my personality. On the other hand, I am an extremely clean person. And having bugs around leaves the possibility of contamination.

Bugs are dirty and gross, and I hate things that are dirty and gross.

I know they do good things, like pollinate flowers and protect plants from other, more infectious bugs, but can’t they just stay outside where all their business is?

Over the weekend, a handful of bugs experienced my wrath. Or fear of infestation. One of the two. The creepy, crawly, multi-legged, winged, and generally unappealing creatures saw their bitter ends with the help of two types of bug spray, a fly swatter, a shoe, paper towels, and a vacuum. Okay, I might be more than a little vicious, and I’ll probably be attacked by a swarm of angry wasps someday because Karma’s a bitch, but I have to get the message across somehow.

To all bugs everywhere: Stay the fuck out of my house.

My cut in hours is proving far more difficult than I thought it would be. So much so, that I am predicting that I may have to live off my small supply of saltine crackers for the next few weeks. And that is only the tip of the iceberg. I ensure you that this is not at all an exaggeration.

So if you are inclined to hang out with me, I would request bringing a loaf of bread or some fruit to my house, since I cannot afford to buy my own at the moment and gas is too expensive to be spending on anything other than my commute to work. Either that or you’ll just have to wait until next month when my paycheck will be receiving a major boost thanks to my new job.

Mid-August can’t arrive soon enough.

Two weeks have come and gone. That means we’re over, right?

My friends tell me I’m doing the right thing, that I’ll be happier, and that it wasn’t worth it anyway. I tell myself they don’t know how it feels to be rejected too many times to know what acceptance feels like anymore.

I also tell myself that they didn’t know how to comfort me when my life fell to pieces. Surprisingly, you did by saying all the things I was thinking but could never fully articulate. They sometimes scoff at my sense of humor. You got it so well you finished all my jokes with me. They don’t understand my compulsive behavior. You didn’t leave until you helped put everything back neatly in its place, without asking, just knowing.

I guess you’ll never really know how happy that made me.

I love my friends. But sometimes they just don’t get it right.

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