Well, *I* say it. And that is all the damn "they'" that you need.
I am occasionally completely obsessed with the thought of someone finding my blog for the first time. (It also sometimes doesn't cross my mind at all. I'm funny like that.) What will be my top post at that very moment?
Will I be talking about re-enacting STEP UP 2: THE STREETS in it's entirety using sock puppets? Or maybe I'll be trying to figure out which is a funnier excited eating noise: "NOM NOM NOM" or "OM NOM NOM."
I really hope that it isn't this post. Mostly because I am going to discuss...
make-up.
Now, I'm no expert on make-up. It's true. I mean, there was that one time. But, it was college. And, quite frankly, I was looking a little washed-out. Don't you judge me.
Actually, if I am being completely honest, I should remind you about my prize-winning* junior high acting career.
(*Please note that there were no actual prizes won**)
(**Unless you consider building self-esteem and teaching me how to work well within a group to be prizes.***)
(*** I don't.)
I think I've blogged about this before, but am too lazy to go find you a link. Plus, if you haven't already read every single one of my posts, then you are DEAD TO ME.
I tried out for my first play because they were having auditions during recess and it was 137 degrees below zero outside that day. A perk that I wasn't made aware of was that the make-up chicas were the high school cheerleaders. As a boy of that age (and any age, really) I liked this idea. I was very excited about getting to spend so much time, in close proximity, with these hotties in the short green skirts. I was a little bummed when I realized that they wouldn't be wearing the cheerleading uniforms while doing our make-up.
I was even more bummed when I remembered that I would be wearing a mask for the entire play and not needing make-up at all. (My claims that some of my neck could be visible fell on deaf -- and less pervy -- ears.) There was only one solution...
Do more (mask-free!) plays.
And I did.
A good number of you have never been a thirteen year old boy. Lemme tell you, that shit ain't easy.
You're sitting in a chair. Some cute girl is standing with one leg on either side of your thigh (as you thank God for being tall) and leaning in very close to your face. The smell of perfume and hair spray is clouding your mind. In a good way. Suddenly "Hold still," being half-whispered sounds like the single sexiest phrase ever uttered. Somehow a boob lightly brushes your shoulder.
Director: We're on in five minutes.
Peter (voice cracking): I'm going to need ten... and someone to discuss baseball and old lady underwear with.
My least favourite thing was that eye liner pencil dealie. That is NUTS. I had to let someone who spelled "Rowdy" as "R-O-W-D-I-E!" draw on my eye with something sharp?? This really stressed me out. Not enough to kill an erection, of course, but I didn't much like it.
Was there a point to this post?
Nope. Not really.
I am curious about one thing though. I've noticed lately, in Facebook pics and the like, that sometimes women's eye lashes look all separated. They are like a bunch of tiny little fingers waving to me and saying, "Peterrrrr, look how cute we are!"
How exactly does that work? Is it the mascara they use? Genetics? Can anyone accomplish this?
These are the questions that pop into my head.
Labels: it is not really about sex
posted by Peter at 10:11 AM
