Holy cats this Wednesday came up fast.
The summer is over. Hello, September. Not quite sure how I feel about you yet, since saying farewell to August seemed so completely forced upon me. Like we met at a party and immediately hit it off and the you came along and yanked August away with maybe a little too much squeezing of her arm.
That’s right. September is a potentially abusive boyfriend.
The window is open and I’m smelling the heavenly wafts from the taco place on the corner. That restaurant is designed to tantalize. Every night they set up a big BBQ outside and the pastor is HEAVEN. I get the tacos with everything on ’em and one of the everything is a HOT sauce. When I’m eating, it becomes a race against my tastebuds, which are all but flayed from my tongue. But if I pause too long, or breathe too much, the full extent of the spice hits me.
So instead, I hork the tacos down like it’s my last meal and then sit, pouring sweat, for the next 15 minutes. Maybe this is a new spa treatment. The Taco Cleanse.
In the two days since I’ve been home I’ve had three auditions and shot a pick-up scene for an indie I have a small role in. And for some reason, although my body was happy to comply, my brain had trouble making the adjustment. Back to life, I mean. Don’t know what my problem is. Just