Fist to the Jaw

Sometime next week, I should begin the process of interviewing directors for my big debut play. I hope they've got some capable people lined up. They're trying to match me with some "up-and-coming" theater directors who would be compatible with the material.

I need this to be good. I need this to be a fist to the jaw. I need this to leave an impression.

The initial shock of getting in is tapering off, and I'm left with a sense of determination. I've got a chance to get off this island and all I've got is a flare gun and a little spec on the horizon.

Some might argue I'm setting myself up for disappointment -- I would argue my entire life's been a series of disappointments! I'm trying to visualize where I want to be. I'm not expecting the world to kneel before me (yet), but I'm expecting something. I'm going to make people take notice of me.

And then, I will unleash hell...

My mother and sister are coming to see this play. They've seen almost nothing I've written, ever. My mother is going to find out what a profane sexual-deviant she's raised. Won't she be fucking proud? I cannot convey to you how well I've hidden the "real me" from my family. I mean, the tattoos were hard enough. ("Why did you have to get a tattoo of a GUN...??") But this play is NOT going to go over well with them. My sister might be able to look past some of the content, but my mother is going to be utterly horrified.

And before you suggest that I might be surprised at how they react, trust me: my mother's going to fucking puke.