Blogger F'd my S

Blogger apparently does not like the Spartan staid and true course of its own administeration of which I was so fond. The result: Blogger has forced me to update my blog with its new google-enriched ways. Humbug I say. I prefer the blogs from the good old days - wrapped in cheese cloth, bound together with rivets, and running a staggering 4.5 miles on only 40 gallons of diesel motorfuel. Oh those were the days....

Anyway. On to more pressing issues. I am le sad. Why, you ask? Is it not an unseasonably warm night in Chicago? Are you not gainfully employed and now (for the first time) free from the parental influence that monetary vassalitude inherently promotes? Are you not a man, made of blood and iron, fighting for justice in a city that knows no other name than DANGER!? Well, all except that last one.

But nevertheless, I feel sad and insignif. In the absence of Theatrical environs I feel small and unspecial. Performance satisfies a need in me to prove that I am valid, not only to the world, but also to myself. Without that outlet (or inlet?), I am a mild-mannered, restrained paper-pusher who wades home everyday through the congestation of commuters just to rub his tired shanks and spend an idle 4 hours until it is time to go to sleep and do it all over tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.... You get the idea.

In short - I'm looking for auditions. I want to get up there again and flex my Perf-cepts. I want to work towards something that I care about, not just something that pays the rent. But overall, I want to feel special again.

Boo hoo. Giant robots will eat your babies. Then we'll see whose inadequate!

Insincerely,

Mre. d'S.