Bumblebee

I've been hesitant to make an entry all day. Last night I went on a Diaryland surfing-spree, before reading almost all of my own entries. Remind me not to do that again. It made me terribly self-conscious about my writing, and I think that I may be on the road to becoming a review whore.

First thing yesterday, I was greeted at the auditorium by Amy, who bounced around the corner and handed me a sticker: "Here, a good luck bumblebee. Stick it on your left boob so no one can see it." I did, and as it turns out so did just about everyone else. That very special bumblebee now has a home on my mirror. Unfortunately, though, Mr. Bumblebee didn't do his job as adequately as he might have. Nothing especially terrible happened, but Richard's ballet piece didn't magically get better. No big surprise there. I think our company curses the most out of the four, a title which I'm proud to have contributed to. At the end of Sleeping Beauty, three of us crashed into each other pretty hard and someone said "FUCK" under their breath loud enough for Nicole, standing in the wings, to hear. It wasn't me, of course. Never. Of course not.

Then there was the whole matter of the insane father of one of the four-year-olds bursting into the dressing room, shoving people around, and trying to kidnap his daughter, who has a restraining order against him. I heard about this from Josh, who rushed past me with a cell phone mumbling, "This is WAY too much drama for me to deal with today." A few minutes later the police showed up, carted the guy off, and wrote up a report that included the big red mark on the girl's arm. She was adorable. I felt so bad for her, having her big recital day ruined by that asshat.

People suck sometimes, don't they?

2003-06-01 @ 6:28 p.m.

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