f.t.t.h

This is a repost from something I had written about 7 months ago. Maybe you're interested?

"See you in hell."

I remember the first time I thought, "This was a bad idea."

On my refrigerator in college, there were the words "fuck theatre to hell" written in out in those poetry magnets (the single dumbest idea ever realized). Somoene had even drawn a little fire around it with a red and orange erasable marker. Every morning, I would wake up, open the fridge only to have that little phrase stare me in the face. I would dismiss it. Whatever. Or not even notice it somedays.

Eventually I would say it to myself when I'd stare at it. "Fuck theatre to hell. Heh."

Then I'd think about it during the day. Maybe put a little melody to it (Toto's "I'll Supply the Love" was a good one. )

Slowly, and without warning, it became a mantra. "Fuck. Theatre. To. Hell." It was my answer to everything; the panacea for whatever ailed me.

The self-fulfilling prophecy began. I became jaded, old, cynical, ironic, detached, hatful, and hated, like, all in a few short weeks. And all because of those poetry magnets.

I would amble about, always questioning what I was doing, how selfish this stupid profession was, how I could be paying an institution for them to teach me how to stipple a fake hobo beard on my face, or to crawl around on the floor in sweatpants screaming at other people "NOOO!!" as they encroached on my invisible pile of post-apocalyptic government-issued bread loaves in an acting exercise geared toward expanding th-- fuck this. Fuck this to hell. Surely this can't be real.

Though:

I would take solace in the fact that I was "doing what I want", but I would step back, and third-eye the situation: I'm getting a degree in pretending, storytelling, entertainment, buffoonery, talking. Those people you see on Disney cruise ships that play at 2:00, 4:00, 6:30, and 9:00 to tracked, canned shitty medleys of Frank Sinatra and Cole Porter tunes, those actors you make fun of on the Soaps, your bearded high school drama teacher who was "a little too nice" to the girls, the girl putting extra espresso in your latte in the morning, the guy getting you some more water: they all did this, too. They took the classes, got the degrees. And here I am. In the middle of Wisconsin, at a school you wouldn't hear of in all your life time. And I'm taking the classes and getting the degree."This was a bad idea."

But the very next synapse that fired from my brain was:
"Nope, this is what I love."

For better or for worse, I had fallen in love. Fallen in love with the acting exercises, the plays, with other actresses, with the parties, the complete ego trip that it was, the thrill of applause, the possibility of creating artMany actors hang all their collective hats on this theory that they are artists or will one day create art. It helps them sleep at night. Please don't disturb or question this idea, or you'll mess with the very fabric of actors' existences. , and the relative meaninglessness of all that was promised to me.

So, here I am. A few years later. With that same mantra "Fuck Theatre To Hell" tacked to my wall, scrawled in Sharpie. Like Theopholis, Faust, Robert Johnson, Zeppelin, MTV, Bernie Madoff, and "2 And A Half Men", I sold my soul to the devil for a chance at a taste. To suckle like Judas, Brutus, and Cassius (All three of whom are dream roles all actors want to play. Coincidence?) at the teet of Satan. So here I am.

Why don't I stop? Cause the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. And the devil I don't know would probably include more schooling and douche-bags and less casual smoking of weed and bi-curious women. And I don't care to meet any other life-sucking, wang-shrinking, fire-breathing, soul-shattering, personality-homogenizing, gateway-drug demon than Theatre.

I'm in hell. And I'm not leaving until I die.

See you in hell.