Little Brown Line

Last night after my second class of The Program I stuck around for the free improv set on the mainstage. It was a beaut--the performers on full throttle. It's really strange being in this world of comedy and rising up through it. I never see things for fun anymore. It's professional development, and while it's still a good time (and sometimes even more a good time because I am more active than the average bear), after comedy shows I can feel like I just ran sprints even though I was on my butt and silent for an hour.

Side: It just occurred to me that I should really get into watching sports more. I love film and all, but sometimes I feel so exhausted analyzing something for two hours. I can't turn off the creator in me. I'm either playing "How would I improve this?" or "How can I improve my work to be this?" But when I watch basketball I'm just like, "Yay, dribble, pretzels etc." I do have pretty fond memories of watching an ex-boyfriend's college swim meets because it was like, a super lazy but falsely productive Saturday afternoon.

Anyway, I was so dead tired come show close. And I was doing that game where you feel tired so you just want to be in bed so you increase your pace to get there quicker, but then you realize it's going to be at least a 40 minute commute and you slow down again, but then oh man! 40 minutes! Put some spring in that step, girly, you wanna get home at 1 AM?! I walked through town alone listening to Tori Amos for some reason. As I got the the brown line I thought I heard the train rumbling through. Yeah, I did. But two flights of stairs. Not gonna happen. But, similar to my walking mind game I ran up the first half-flight, then was like, "Okay, I'm gonna miss it." But then was like, "Well, with that attitude!" And then I ran for like two more seconds and then I was like, "Seriously not for all the tea in China can I muster the lightening speed to make this train."But then I was like, "Maybe someone will fall down on the tracks, you never know, I better just hoof up there." So I did, and right as I crowned the top of the steps, the train doors closed.

Sigh, I can wait ten minutes. But then I heard a "Hey." It was the conductor. He was leaning out of his window. And then the doors reopened! I scuttled in with a "Thanks!" It was such a small thing, but I felt so cared for and so important. It really made my night, which is weird because it was a very good night to begin with.

Heresick

Tomorrow I fly back to the Midwest for holidaze. I am looking forward to seeing my family, but I do not want to leave.

I love Arizona: pink skies, cacti, mountains, boys outside the Circle K glugging plastic gallons of water, My Friends, Sunday improv in the design building, Tuesday improv on the library lawn, students who say "I'm not just saying this--," the click of my bedroom door closing, my cushy bed, fresco bean burritos, the stone bus stop, the rainbowed aisles of Mexican soda, my poster of Peeta. When I have to leave here, I feel sick and sad like it's the last night of summer camp.

Some people will never experience certain kinds of love in their lives. I will probably never "get" that hardcore sportsfan-die-hard-my-blood-runs (insert color). I can't imagine what it's like to be an only child and have that sibling connection missing from your experience. The first time romance is a true possibility something is exposed to you, from you. And me? I love the place I live so fiercely, that it pains me to take a vacation.

Ironically, this is not AZ. This is Disney's version of AZ in Cars Land. Hill and me this weekend.

So I went to Arizona to escape my blues.
That paradise bird sang and my life was never ever the same.
Arizona, Arizona you were good to me.