I have been really sick lately. It's a seasonal thing. To arm myself against the elements of further infection, I have been taking a Z pack. Yes, it's all the stuff in all the other cold medicines times twenty. So my boss calls me to do a singing cop downtown. Okay, here I come. I had been feeling like a craptacular mess the last two days. Suddenly, I felt better when I kickboxed this morning. I can do this. I know I can.
The day had been good so far. I had somewhere important express interest in my writing. More on that later. The night before, despite being under the weather, May Wilson and I had kicked ass at Otto's Shrunken Head. Oh and I also delivered a successful rapping chicken to the assistant of Melissa Harris-Perry. Walking past their office, on the other end of the hall, was SNL. In some ways I have given up on that dream. I am not an improviser nor am I a woman you can easily box in. On the other hand, after seeing Johnny Carson's photo I thought maybe, just maybe...
Of course this was after a hot week last week, where I discovered that I was up for a huge project. And then got good news on another one. And this week nothing. Welcome to the nature of my life. Sometimes you are on top of the world, and then the clouds are taken.
Going to the gig, I get a sudden cramp in my stomach. I tell myself it's the Z pack. It is working. I just hope I won't poop my pants on the street. Okay, the term is shit myself. But I have been doing lots of shows for kids lately. When you start dropping cuss words in real life, then it slips out at the church function and you are fucked. Okay, so much for that shit. Anyway, it was pretty apparent, I was going to shit myself. So I searched for a Starbucks in Tribeca. None, fuck those assholes. Okay, the nonswearing promise ran out long ago. Oops. I am desperately trying to contain my bile and find a bathroom. Finally, I sneak into a bar. I run to the back and oh my gosh, relief. Then as I went to flush the toilet I saw what I believed to be overflow. I don't know what was worse, the fact I stealthed the toilet or the fact that I almost broke it. Either way it did flush. Still, I felt weak after that. Must mean the medicine is working, right? Yes, it is working. It is killing everything inside me, including myself.
I went to the gig and the cop went smoothly until I slipped into my dyslexia at the end. The telegram was from the Makeable Group, not the Marketable Group. Usually I can handle something like that, but I was becoming so lightheaded from all the water loss I had experienced. The client told me it was okay. I had knocked it out of the park until then. I kinda did look like I was knocking on death's door. At times like these I fear she might call my boss and ask if I am on drugs. No, only a Z Pack and DayQuil. They seem to be far more lethal than heroin without the high.
The trip home was brutal. I got the train that did the milk run. I feared being one of those passengers that fainted, holding up the train and making everyone hate me. I survived the train ride, and bought myself some chicken soup. I have been living on that for days. I don't know why but it works wonders. They call it Jewish Penicillin. It does work. I slept a bit until I had to run out and get some curlers. Then got a Dunken Donuts Collata.
Of course in between there my mom and I talked about my book signing. We discussed me possibly speaking to my former teacher's creative writing class. In a way it could be a good thing. At the same time, I see myself as a sixteen year old kid. How would I react to seeing myself? Would I be in awe of all the things I accomplished? Or would I think, what a desperate loser trying to be cool? Would I wonder what it was like to meet famous people? Or would I think, she isn't a household name yet, screw her? Maybe I would recognize myself from television and be armed with some smart ass remark? Or maybe I would be my own hero? As I pondered this existential dilemma I realized it had been a month since I had been on television.
Yes one month. I filmed a pilot last Sunday. I did a skype interview for something a week ago. I also have some other things in the works and no news. A fan has not stopped me for an autograph. My inner Norma Desmond phoned in. Was I fading? Damnit, I had not even reached Sunset Boulevard. My buddy had seen me by accident when he watched a rerun of some show I was on in the library. Still, when fans stop you for autographs you get Joan Crawford like spoiled. Yes, I am that fucking insane. Move over Miley.
Just then my stomach growled. I had to run to the toilet yet again. Living the dream people.
Love
April
www.aprilbrucker.com
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Download the first chapter of my audiobook https://itunes.apple.com/jp/album/i-came-i-saw-i-sang-ep/id704930346?l=en
The day had been good so far. I had somewhere important express interest in my writing. More on that later. The night before, despite being under the weather, May Wilson and I had kicked ass at Otto's Shrunken Head. Oh and I also delivered a successful rapping chicken to the assistant of Melissa Harris-Perry. Walking past their office, on the other end of the hall, was SNL. In some ways I have given up on that dream. I am not an improviser nor am I a woman you can easily box in. On the other hand, after seeing Johnny Carson's photo I thought maybe, just maybe...
Of course this was after a hot week last week, where I discovered that I was up for a huge project. And then got good news on another one. And this week nothing. Welcome to the nature of my life. Sometimes you are on top of the world, and then the clouds are taken.
Going to the gig, I get a sudden cramp in my stomach. I tell myself it's the Z pack. It is working. I just hope I won't poop my pants on the street. Okay, the term is shit myself. But I have been doing lots of shows for kids lately. When you start dropping cuss words in real life, then it slips out at the church function and you are fucked. Okay, so much for that shit. Anyway, it was pretty apparent, I was going to shit myself. So I searched for a Starbucks in Tribeca. None, fuck those assholes. Okay, the nonswearing promise ran out long ago. Oops. I am desperately trying to contain my bile and find a bathroom. Finally, I sneak into a bar. I run to the back and oh my gosh, relief. Then as I went to flush the toilet I saw what I believed to be overflow. I don't know what was worse, the fact I stealthed the toilet or the fact that I almost broke it. Either way it did flush. Still, I felt weak after that. Must mean the medicine is working, right? Yes, it is working. It is killing everything inside me, including myself.
I went to the gig and the cop went smoothly until I slipped into my dyslexia at the end. The telegram was from the Makeable Group, not the Marketable Group. Usually I can handle something like that, but I was becoming so lightheaded from all the water loss I had experienced. The client told me it was okay. I had knocked it out of the park until then. I kinda did look like I was knocking on death's door. At times like these I fear she might call my boss and ask if I am on drugs. No, only a Z Pack and DayQuil. They seem to be far more lethal than heroin without the high.
The trip home was brutal. I got the train that did the milk run. I feared being one of those passengers that fainted, holding up the train and making everyone hate me. I survived the train ride, and bought myself some chicken soup. I have been living on that for days. I don't know why but it works wonders. They call it Jewish Penicillin. It does work. I slept a bit until I had to run out and get some curlers. Then got a Dunken Donuts Collata.
Of course in between there my mom and I talked about my book signing. We discussed me possibly speaking to my former teacher's creative writing class. In a way it could be a good thing. At the same time, I see myself as a sixteen year old kid. How would I react to seeing myself? Would I be in awe of all the things I accomplished? Or would I think, what a desperate loser trying to be cool? Would I wonder what it was like to meet famous people? Or would I think, she isn't a household name yet, screw her? Maybe I would recognize myself from television and be armed with some smart ass remark? Or maybe I would be my own hero? As I pondered this existential dilemma I realized it had been a month since I had been on television.
Yes one month. I filmed a pilot last Sunday. I did a skype interview for something a week ago. I also have some other things in the works and no news. A fan has not stopped me for an autograph. My inner Norma Desmond phoned in. Was I fading? Damnit, I had not even reached Sunset Boulevard. My buddy had seen me by accident when he watched a rerun of some show I was on in the library. Still, when fans stop you for autographs you get Joan Crawford like spoiled. Yes, I am that fucking insane. Move over Miley.
Just then my stomach growled. I had to run to the toilet yet again. Living the dream people.
Love
April
www.aprilbrucker.com
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Download the first chapter of my audiobook https://itunes.apple.com/jp/album/i-came-i-saw-i-sang-ep/id704930346?l=en
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