The Paper Cake: Theatre Is For Losers

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Theatre Is For Losers

Goals I've completed:
9. Work on art piece for Nanlar

So on Thursday, the actors for Theatre Company were chosen. And I wasn't one of them. Like I seriously do not understand what I did wrong. What the fuck. Erik got in. Good for him, but... what? Okay, I'm not being vain or cocky or anything, but I was good. My monologue was so good it was freaky, according to Erik. And during callbacks, Erik told me I was the only one in my group who wasn't just standing there looking bored. I was actually acting. And when we did the radio programs, I read perfectly with NO stumbling! Something just isn't right. My friend Candice got in. No offense to her, but she just wasn't as good as me. I seriously owned. I did so good. Erik asked Mrs. Brazzill why I didn't get in and apparently I didn't project my voice and I just wasn't physically developed enough as an actor. Um... what the fucking hell? It seriously isn't hard to learn to project your voice. Tell me once that I'm too quiet and then I'll be the loudest fucking person in Theatre Company if you want me to. But all of my friends told me they heard me perfectly fine. Excuse me if I wasn't screaming. And no one else was louder than me! And I'm not physically developed enough as an actor?? What the hell does that even mean?! I can act, bitch! I did my monologue for Erik and he said it was so real it freaked him out! And he doesn't lie to me to make me feel good because he doesn't give a shit about my feelings. So he was telling the truth. And I did it the exact same during my audition. Also, my cousins have told me before that I'm a great actor when we used to make movies together. Every one of my friends in Theatre Company is seriously confused. Also, I was the only grade 12 who auditioned who didn't get in. My friend Crystal was telling me that even if I sucked, it just wasn't right to not let me in. Candice's jaw was on the floor when she found out I didn't make it. Man, I'm seriously pissed. And everyone keeps telling me to go talk to Mrs. Brazzill. But what for? What am I supposed to say? "Hi, Mrs. Brazzill. I just wanted to tell you I think you're a stupid asshole for not letting me in Theatre Company. And I think I did good. So let me in, you whore." Haha, no thanks. I'd probably end up slapping her. And besides, I don't want to be in Theatre Company if that's how that bitch runs things. I think she didn't pick me simply because she didn't know me. I can act better than half of the people who were in Theatre Company last year and she chose them all again. She also chose everyone who was in her damn acting or drama classes. Uh, hello?? UNFAIR MUCH. Gawd. And apparently my dad went to talk to her and she said I just wasn't good enough. And what did he say? "Raven can't be good at everything." ...FUCK YOU, DAD. I WAS GOOD. She's just a biased bitch! And seriously, if you think I'm just being a sore loser, then FUCK YOU TOO. Because if I knew I wasn't good, I would accept it! Like I accept everything else I'm not good at. Like sports! I know I suck, but whatever. But I was damn good! And that's why I'm not okay with this bullshit! FUCK YOU, MRS. BRAZZILL. GO DIE IN A HOLE. I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO THEATRE COMPANY. YOU RUINED MY LAST YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL. THANKS FOR THE CHANCE, BITCH.

1 comment:

peebsOctober 3, 2010 at 6:12 PM
THAT IS SERIOUSLY MESSED. THAT MAKES ME SO MAD. GAH! WOW. Maybe go see her, tell her how much it means to you. Tell her you heard it was because of your 'lack' of voice projection and say that you thought you were supposed to be just as loud as everyone else, but you really can project quite loudly.

If I were you I would just want the closure. If she still is being a bitch, then yell at her. Why not? You're almost out of there. Don't do anything that'll get you suspended :P but wouldn't that feel good to tell her that she's blind and whatever else? ;)

Look into joining a community drama group?
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Robot Boy

Mr. and Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life.
They were a normal happy husband and wife.
One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad.
Mrs. Smith would be a mom,
Which would make him the dad!
But something was wrong with their bundle of joy.
It wasn't human at all,
It was a robot boy!
He wasn't warm and cuddly
And he didn't have skin.
Instead there was a cold, thin layer of tin.
There were wires and tubes sticking out of his head.
He just lay there and stared,
Not living or dead.

The only time he seemed alive at all
Was with a long extension cord
Plugged into the wall.

Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor,
"What have you done to my boy?
He's not flesh and blood,
He's aluminum alloy!"

The doctor said gently,
"What I'm going to say
Will sound pretty wild.
But you're not the father
Of this strange looking child.
You see, there still is some question
About the child's gender,
But we think that it's father
Is a microwave blender."

The Smith's lives were now filled
With misery and strife.
Mrs. Smith hated her husband,
And he hated his wife.
He never forgave her unholy alliance:
A sexual encounter
With a kitchen appliance.

And Robot Boy
Grew to be a young man.

Though he was often mistaken
For a garbage can.

~Tim Burton

The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy

He proposed in the dunes,
They were wed by the sea,
Their nine day long honeymoon
Was on the isle of Capri.

For their supper they had one spectacular dish -
A simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
Her bride's heart made a wish.

That wish came true -
She gave birth to a baby.
But was this little one human?
Well, maybe.

Ten fingers, ten toes,
He had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
But normal?
Not quite.

This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
Was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.

She railed at the doctor:
"He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine."

"You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
You cannot blame me.
... Have you ever considered, by chance,
A small home by the sea?"

Not knowing what to name him,
They just called him Sam,
Or sometimes,
"That thing that looks like a clam."

Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?

When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
They called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.

One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main.
He watched the rain water as it swirled
Down the drain.

His mom on the freeway,
In the breakdown lane,
Was pounding the dashboard -
She couldn't contain
The ever-rising grief,
Frustration,
And pain.

"Really, sweetheart," she said.
"I don't mean to make fun,
But something smells fishy
And I think it's our son.
I don't like to say this, but it must be said,
You're blaming our son for your problems in bed."

He tried salves, he tried ointments
That turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
And tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.

The doctor diagnosed,
"I can't quite be sure,
But the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
Would help you do it for hours!"

He came on tiptoe,
He came on the sly.
Sweat on his forehead,
And on his lips - a lie.
"Son are you happy? I don't mean to pry,
But do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?"

Sam blinked his eye twice,
But made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.

As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.

The buried him quickly in the sand by the sea -
Sighed a prayer, wept a tear -
And they were back home by three.

A cross of grey driftwood marked Oyster Boy's grave.
Words writ in the sand
Promised Jesus would save.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.

~Tim Burton

Mummy Boy

He wasn't soft and pink
With a fat little tummy;
He was hard and hollow,
A little boy mummy.

"Tell us, please, Doctor,
The reason or cause,
Why our gundle of joy
Is just a bundle of gauze."

"My diagnosis," he said.
"For better or worse,
Is that your son is the result
Of an old pharoah's curse."

That night they talked
Of their son's odd condition -
They called him "a reject
From an archaeological expedition."

They thought of some complex
Scientific explanation,
But assumed it was simple
Supernatural reincarnation.

With the other young tots
He only played twice,
An ancient game of virgin sacrifice.
(But the kids ran away, saying, "You aren't very nice.")

Alone and rejected, Mummy Boy wept,
Then went to the cabinet
Where the snack food was kept.

He wiped his wet sockets with his mummified sleeves,
And sat down to a bowl of sugar-frosted tanna leaves.

One dark, gloomy day,
From out of the fog,
Appeared a little white mummy dog.

For his newfound wrapped pet,
He did many things,
Like building a dog house
A la Pyramid of kings.

It was late in the day -
Just before dark.
Mummy Boy took his dog
For a walk in the park.

The park was empty
Except for a squirrel,
And a birthday party for a Mexican girl.

The boys and girls had al started to play,
But noticed that thing that looked like papier mache.

"Look, it's a pinata,"
Said one of the boys.
"Let's crack it wide open
And get the candy and toys."

They took a baseball bat
And whacked open his head.
Mummy Boy fell to the ground;
He finally was dead.

Inside of his head
Were no candy or prizes,
Just a few stray beetles
Of various sizes.

~Tim Burton

Stain Boy

Roy, the Toxic Boy

To those who knew him -
His friends -
We called him Roy.
To others he was known
As that horrible Toxic Boy.

He loved ammonia and asbestos,
And lots of cigarette smoke.
What he breathed in for air
Would make other people choke!

His very favourite toy
Was a can of aerosol spray;
He'd sit quietly and shake it,
And spray it all the day.

He'd stand inside the garage
In the early morning frost,
Waiting for the car to start
And fill him with exhaust.

The one and only time
I ever saw Toxic Boy cry
Was when some sodium chloride
Got into his eye.

One day for fresh air
They put him in the garden.
His face went deathly pale
And his body began to harden.

The final gasp of his short life
Was sickly with despair.
Whoever thought that you could die
From breathing outdoor air?

As Roy's soul left his body
We all said a silent prayer.
It drifted up to Heaven
And left a hole in the ozone layer.

~Tim Burton