Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand
by krisis
And, damnit, despite making it through Madonna’s greatest hits unscathed, i sprained my freakin’ ankle backstage tonight running around like a maniac. This will definitely effect my choreographed sing-a-long walk to the show tomorrow in a negative fashion.
by krisis
I wear my headphones for the entire walk from here to the theatre, and from there back to the apartment. This week i’ve been singing the whole way there: Pinkerton, Garbage, Return of Saturn, Jagged Little Pill. I investigate each record in thirty minute intervals, picking apart the melodies in high-definition sound and finding their places in my own range. Rivers comes out strained in chest voice, i solidly match Shirley’s alto, Gwen brings me up to falsetto or down to my lower register, and Alanis tends to hover over my break point. I cannot keep my voice inside my chest.
I never really try to imagine myself from outside. I suppose it’s a problem i have … why there is such a disparity between my interior image and what i actually allow people to see and hear. Today walking home at midnight belting out “you’ve already won me over, in spite of me” i finally stopped for just a second to think about the picture. The image. My whole frame dwarfed by my round black earphones, shrinking me even farther away from my twenty earned years, swinging my arms and stretching my baritone voice, planting one foot in front of the other. I draw stares from plain pedestrians and pretentious Penn kids alike.
I hardly ever picture what i look and sound like, even when i’m doing the most outrageous of things. Last night i caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror in the middle of “Like a Virgin” or “Material Girl,” and – suddenly – my voice matched up with that writhing image of me as if audio had just been synced up to a projected movie. I had to stop singing for a moment so as not to cry. The boy i was looking at wasn’t at all the one i felt i was being at the time.
I really don’t mean to be any of this at all.
by krisis
Damnit, i don’t even want a six pack, a four-pack would do. Two, in a pinch. Just an ab or two. I mean, do i really have to eat healthy and do aerobic exercise to get results?
No, wait, don’t answer that.
by krisis
Top five reasons having a lesbian roommate rocks:
1. Unlimited free passage of Ani DiFranco and Indigo Girls cds from her bedroom to yours.
2. Accurate consultation in romantic issues, from the side of the suitor and the suited.
3. Without prompting, asks if you’ve ever heard of her favourite girl-on-girl porn sites and then offers to show them to you.
4. Absolutely no chance of romantic entanglement. None.
5. Potential hints, corrections, and suggestions about your interactions with the female erogenous zones, if you’re brave enough to ask.
by krisis
Cast Parties are always an experience that involve nearly as much drama as the show they are celebrating, and last night wasn’t an exception. What was an exception was that i didn’t drink; i’ve never drank at a winter show party, and decided to turn the trend into a tradition. It was interesting, if only because everyone finally got the point that i am really a fucking lunatic whether or not i’ve got a couple of drinks in me. There was simulated sex with multiple cast members. There was a contest to see who could grab the most genitalia, both male and female. There was me singing along and bopping around to the entire Immaculate Collection.
Oh, and i might have attempted to kiss someone.
When i’m drunk i flirt, but i’m usually doing it in a generic drunken way. Being sober, last night i was flirting with some amount of purpose. And, oddly enough, i was being flirted back at. I still don’t quite understand what was going on, personally, but apparently Laurel knows the whole story and will explain it to me before the show tonight.
See, i’m a stupid fucking lunatic who can’t even manage to lean in for a kiss whether i’m sober or trashed. Don’t you love the consistency?