I feel kind of guilty, buying so much, just for myself, but my new flat is empty and hallow, like my soul will be if I don’t stop doing shit gigs. I showed my most recent gig list to my manager, who sort of sighed and looked sympathetically at me.
“Booking those yourself?” She said, like I’m special.
“Yeah. I like it. Gives me more control.”
“As long as you know what you like. Are you OK? You look tired.”
And she looks corrupt.
BTW, does she forget I’ve got a mortgage? Until something better comes along (sugar daddy/mommy/infant; feature film lead; cancer) this skill is paying my bill. And anyway, I like the gigs I’ve booked. Mostly. They’re in nice places, most of which serve herbal tea. Sure, sometimes the staff (lesbians) stare at me like I’m satan, and sometimes the paper plate food smells like Belfast, but what could be more fun than jacking off to jesus with a 16 year old and his mum in the front row? who brings their mum to a comedy show? or even to my show? He’s either closeted or crazy or, even hotter, both? Time will tell. I’m sure I’ll see that young man again. Right before I go into my final coma. And, curtain down.
It’s dark out already. I don’t feel sad, just cheated. South Africa ignores clock changing, why can’t we? Who cares if kids have more sunlight in the morning? What about my 7 pm-ish sunset needs? Why am i rambling like this? How bored am I? and how lonely is madonna? another kid? aren’t two monsters enough? whatever happened to discretion? or singers who sing on pitch? Or salt free crackers? I can’t find any, and i’m sure my grandmother lived on those fuckers. ‘Til she died. Maybe they’re not a good idea after all.
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