Friday, March 21, 1997:
I had an audition today. Or, rather, a pre-audition audition. Apparently there was a casting director at the Poetry Club last week when I performed, and he called me in for a meeting. I rarely say no to any new experience, so I went. When I got there, he asked me, "Can you act?" I had no problem answering that question.
"I don't act to entertain, but I am an incredible actress. I never forget my lines, I'm not easily distracted and I can make you believe whatever I want you to. I'm such a good actress, I never stop acting. I'm always acting. I act my little heart out. I could be acting right now, or not. You can't tell. That's how good I am. I act stupid at temp jobs, so I don't have to work. I act interested on dates, so I can make fun of them later. I act like I don't care that my younger sister is getting married, even though it drives me insane that she's getting married before I am. I mean, that's just not the way it's supposed to be. I was supposed to be first, goddammit. Sure I can act. I am an incredible actress. And I can prove it. You probably think I'm as angry as I seem. I'm not. It's all an act. I've fooled you. I'm acting. I'm not really this angry. I'm much, much angrier."
He told me he'd call me.
If he does, I'll act like I care.
Saturday, March 22, 1997:
New York's a small town. I'm constantly running into people I know. Or used to know. I ran into this guy today and for the life of me, I couldn't make the connection. So I say to him, "Did we go to the same high school, college, camp, kindergarten? Did you date my sister? Do you live in my neighborhood? Do we take the same subway? Have I seen you at the gym? No, clearly that's not it. Come on. Give me a hint. I'm racking my brains, waiting for the bell to start ringing, trying to place the face. You would be who? Do I know you? Oh my God. It's you. You. The sociopath who I went out with for three and a half years? Who I lived with for four months? Who left me for his assistant? Mitchell? Is that you? Huh. Funny I didn't remember you. I see now that you haven't changed a bit. I'm so, so sorry. That must be terrible. To still be you."
Sunday, March 23, 1997:
Okay. I ran into him. The first encounter in a while. And I realized that it bothered me. A lot. I'm just being honest. I woke up this morning and thought, maybe I wasn't clear enough with him about the rules. The guidelines he must follow. He just can't be in my neigborhood. Ever. In fact, he can't be in any neighborhood but his own. When we broke up, he got the East Village, I got everywhere else. He shouldn't complain. First Avenue to Third. Fourteenth Street to St. Marks Place. That's all his. There are delis. He won't starve. There are clothing stores. He won't freeze. There's a movie theater. Two, in fact. And bookstores. And a tattoo parlor if he wants to get a tattoo. If he's interested, I have some ideas of what should be tattooed on him...and where. He cannot leave the East Village unless he has to go to a doctor in another neighborhood, and even then the illness has to be life-threatening. He cannot show up where I'm going to be. And if he does, he has to leave. He cannot know where I live. He cannot call me. He cannot even know my number. He cannot call my friends. He cannot send my mother a birthday card. I mean, really, who the fuck does he think he is? Martha Stewart? Well, listen, Martha, those are the rules. Follow them and no one will get hurt. Again. He should be happy and stay where he is.
Stay.
Stay.
I said, stay!
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