I think I'll stick with smokes, Scrappy. Last night I did this thing called, "being on book" in which I people would yell, "LINE!" and I would yell the line they forgot.
The play is about Charlotte Bronte.
"May I read a book, father?"
Everything is tragic, and people die of consumption, and no ninjas explode from dark corners to do battle with naked teenage girls.
I'd rather be dead, than go back, tomorrow. But i made a promise, and so I'll go.
I think I'm supposed to continue cutting through books with an exacto knife so that they can be fitted with little lights so the actors can look creepy with reciting some boring Howard's End type shit.
Did i mention that i REALLY love this friend?
Allyson in Natter, on discovering the magic of theatre.