I'll admit to a lot of things, truthfully, but whether or not I admit to them in some semblance of public is up for debate almost every time. Guaranteed.
Tomorrow's the Open Mic/Speak Out event hosted by HWS does NEDAW. And you're looking at one of the people signed up to speak, since, well, I can write but can't carry a tune even in a bucket. I'm fine with this - hell, I volunteered for it. The three pieces that I'm sharing (no idea what order yet, or when in the program that I'm going, that's going to be decided tonight) are Definition, The Entity Known as Fat Pants, and Cracked (an original poem that hasn't seen the light of the blog but has been running over on Inkpop for a while). These pieces are quite personal. And tomorrow night I'm going to read them, out loud, in front of a group of people that I most likely don't know but have to see for a pretty long while yet.
It's 23 hours from the event and already the butterflies are forming.
I shouldn't be nervous. I used to do Public Presentations for fun, and I've never had a problem reading what I've written. Then again, my English classes are a smaller audience that what I'm going to see tomorrow, and that there might be the issue.
Especially if Fizziks boy shows up.
Now, there may be some changes to Definition and Fat Pants, but if there is, then it won't be anything that detracts from the overall message of the writing, just taking out some of the more minute details that I assume those who read on a regular basis are familiar with. That or I'll drop slight explanations in there, I haven't quite decided and I'm hoping that I can take a look at this stuff before the event tomorrow, after Stagecraft.
Which, honestly, might start driving me up the wall.
If you want to continue with butterflies, then we can probably assign this class a different type. My professor, who shall remain nameless (and now that I think about it, he might not actually be a professor - might need to check into that) has this increasingly annoying and slightly tacky habit of calling people out, in class, in a semi-derogatory manner.
The winter show ended about a week and a half ago. We've already torn down the stage, and there is an open stage now, which we'll use to start getting things ready for the spring show (which I'm doing sound for, just got the script tonight, and won't have a chance to look at it until later this week, because, honestly, there are a few other things that trump that) and, I guess it's alright to assume that you'll come to the show if you're in the class that had a hand in finishing the set, but as it wasn't in the syllabus, it really can't be classified under the heading of mandatory. Our professor was, however, of the mindset that it was under the previous heading, and, the class the following Wednesday (we had Monday, the next day off) proceeded to ask this student, in front of everyone else in a not-so-nice tone of voice, You didn't attend the show, did you? Which she said no, and you would have thought someone had tried to cancel his birthday, or at the very least rained out his parade.
The butterflies, in this case, would be in the fact that everyday is a little more than unpredictable with him. You could be walking along fine - answering things right in class (oh, by the way, don't flip through your book - it says to him that you didn't do the reading even if you did and forgot your photographic memory at home) - and the next thing you know it all goes to hell and you're falling through the floor, silently staring at the clock as though you can will it to go faster. Pitfalls. The top of the hill and then falling straight through to the bottom. And you never know which you're going to get that morning.
But those aren't the same butterflies that you get when you have to get up on stage and say something personal and oddly baring. And they're not the same as the ones that you get when the boy that you like sits next to you in class; definitely different than the ones you get when you walk into class slightly later than usual, and he's more or less sitting in your seat and you have to be the one to sit next to him. Those are whole different species of butterfly - a little more rare and reclusive, but still content to beat at your ribcage, up around your heart.
I'll take my butterflies. Every last one of those frustrating, beautiful things.