It Was Just a River

He came. Sondheim came. He saw. He whatever-ed.

And it wasn't denial on my part. By the time he came, I couldn't have cared less.

I WANTED TO CARE. It's Stephen Sondheim, the man who had made my career infinitely more interesting, for feck's sake.

I had had a few hits of bourbon* in the cube after my last chute shit, sharing a sweet moment with friends who were so happy and relieved that I survived.

As I lie there dead, I felt the bourbon like a lovely drip i.v. taking away my foot, finger and back pain along with psychic sorrow...and some cognitive function. I got through my one solo line, sang a wicked gorgeous high d and c# at the end (at least to my sauced ear), and downstairs I went.

And I met a nice man with a beard who seemed happy with what we had done.

And that was the extent of it for me. All I wanted to do was scrub off my make-up.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK-doodles.

Next time I'll care. I promise.

*This is not my usual m.o. Like NEVER. But just this once, it was good. Honestly, if you knew how bad it had gotten, you would have done the same.