thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Eleven hours' sleep and still dead tired Hi, Master. Oh, nothing in p'ticular. Finefinefinefinefine, I crack. I did it again. I dreamt about work. This is why I've been sleeping half-days at a clip. If you only dream about work, what's the point of going to sleep at all? I'm exhausted. Eleven hours of sleep and I'm exhausted, because my subconscious was working the whole time. Ugh. OK, this is what work is: pouring coffee and adding up candy bar prices in my head behind a weird little counter in the lobby of the theatre. The hours are sparse, the pay isn't spectacular, but the atmosphere... oh, man. I got the job roughly one year ago as a senior in high school. A friend approached me at lunch one day and begged me to cover his shift that evening. "Uh, Scott*? Um, aren't you supposed to ask your actual, uh... coworkers to do that?" "But, but Erin! I have to go to LA! I have to!" And it went on like this until I gave in. Then, miraculously, his manager kept calling me to fill in for these chicks who had just been fired. I kept happening to be ill. I got one last call in March. "Erin, I'll never bother you again... do you want to work the counter this next show?" I've stayed on ever since. And lately every time I go to sleep, there I am again. This is bad hoodoo. They've gotten progressively weirder since the one at the beginning of this season, in which my main supervisor was talking with my boss over the phone and I was eavesdropping. I overheard this about myself: "You have to fire her, Chelsea*. She's just too ugly to work here." Then there was the one after my other supervisor broke her leg and needed to borrow a cushy computer chair from the box office. I dreamt that they became resentful and started yelling obscenities at her. Then there was the one in which Dave Foley joined the concession staff. He and I got along great. And he looked spectacular in the cumbersome maroon apron. Last night, there was candy everywhere, and it was my fault because I'd been singing showtunes with some incredibly tone-deaf girl who apparently had just been added to the staff. I'm beginning to doubt any real reason to sleep at all when it happens like this. Oh, well. The next show opens... let's see... 21 March. Gives me a little time to stabilise my REM patterns, right? This has got to stop. ~ETK *Yeah, I obviously changed these names. You're not missing anything. 23:27 - 28 February, 2001 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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