I’m not interested in musicals and I guess that doesn’t make me boring. I’m subdued compared to my roommate, the local little theatre actress. I’m not prepared to hear the extended stories that will last thirty minutes of nonstop exuberant dramatized speech when maybe she should use her inside voice, take out her contacts, and crawl into bed.
I have a severe need for silence even though when one room is silent there will always be noise somewhere else. Like the tropical forest on the other side of Earth where it’s still light outside and a grasshopper is starring in his own musical with the canaries. But somewhere there is a roly-poly in the wet earth begging for a little quiet time under the mounds of dirt he calls home. Much like the piles of unwashed laundry that’s suffocating me but it’s more homey than Edward-so-and-so’s magical voice that’s she is quoting from the play that’s the epitome of cliché.
I think it’s okay to sit on icy brick stairs even if they make my butt cold. It gives a little edge to my personality. When it’s just ice pellets catching on my eyelids and my eyelashes keeping them imprisoned it’s better than giving her my icy attitude. But she gives me a confused look because I’d rather stay out in the cold than watch a stiff-hair-sprayed man dance to the same score of music that I heard on the same musical that she showed me last night.
Maybe, it’s because I’m still banging on the glass walls of my personal hourglass that I’ve been stuck inside of since I realized what a the hourglass counted. I guess I’d just rather run into a wall headfirst rather than watch this musical, but I guess I’m still procrastinating instead of doing homework. But I still hate musicals, but my roommate is begging me with disc in hand if I’ll just give her favorite musical a chance. Somehow I’m forced into agreement and now I’m on an emotional roller-coaster of belting big-haired women and interesting costume choices.
I don’t really get the entire gist of what I’m watching because every thirty seconds she stops the musical to tell me about a few hundred fun facts along with the entire reading of an article on the type of shoe the main character wears. So honestly, I’m not sure why she is so upset that the second leading role is on a ship sailing away.
By the time the musical is over and the credits are rolling, it’s 2:03 in the morning and I’m so exhausted that I can’t even reach for the dangling chain to turn out my lamp. My roommate is still half squealing and half sobbing. I don’t know what to say about the musical that she begged me to watch so I look at her red rimmed eyes and suddenly wish I was that roly-poly dug deep under a clod of dirt. I realize that I don’t have to tip-toe around her feelings like I’m stepping on eggshells. So, better late than never, I’m honest.
“Frankly, I hated it and it was a waste of time.”
Written by Amelia Stanford