So last night, on a diet-coke-fuelled bender, I spent about 4 hours lying awake thinking about how thoroughly awesome it would be to actually be cast in a lead role for next year’s Sweeney Todd and then going around and around and around and fighting myself over not “getting excited” or “hoping too much”, as the initial disappointment I felt with RENT was well, a bit much.
I also have this stupid way of being crazy superstitious when it comes to auditions, with my mother and I always not talking about it afterwards in case we “jinx it” (even though I relive it and analyse every second of it internally, over and over and over), and adding that to my mantra from my father that I have always chanted:
“If I get it, I get it, I don’t, I don’t.”
Which seems thoroughly sensible, but at the same time, slightly infuriating. I know I am talented enough to play a few of these roles, but I am nervous about the competition as well as amateur-theatre-company-political-bollocks.
Bollocks aside, I am truly hopeful that on Saturday we will get a cast list with my name on it, and I won’t want to scream and cry and throw things at having missed out on the opportunity. My stomach does flippy-flops and I stop breathing when I imagine being able to do it, and not be “girl 3rd from the right, 2nd row from the front” again.
So everyone pray, hope, think good thoughts, send up happy balloons, push prayer notes into the Western Wall, cross their fingers and toes and just well, be prepared to console and pick me up when the inevitable happens next Saturday.
That is all. Spit spot.