I am the entertainer

for realsies, this is what I've got stuck in my head:

and it's more applicable than you might think.

This is honestly what blogging feels like:
I'm standing on a stage in an auditorium- a big auditorium- ranting.  I'm on the stage, alone.  I've got this stupid spotlight on my eyes so that I can't see how many people are out there, but every now and again someone coughs or moves, letting me know that people are present.  And I just keep on talking as my words keep echoing on into oblivion.

I think the next time I'm feeling saucy in walmart, I'm going to accuse the person in front of me in line of cutting.  I'm going to tell them that they know I was there before them and maybe next time they should be more considerate.  If they try to be kind and trade me spots, I'm going to be passive aggressive about it.  I'll refuse the spot in the line and then mutter barely audible phrases like  "what a complete jerk" or "I wish some people would just drop dead".  Maybe, I'll even throw a few bags of chips or knock over a display of chap stick.  Once I get to the cash register, I'll say something like "can you believe that guy? sorry you had to put up with him."

Tonight, after work, I went and hung out with my sister, Samantha.  She's like, one of my very best friends.  I tell her everything.  She gets to hear all of my over-analytical hypotheses and all about my constant social faux pas. (how do you make 'faux pas' plural?).  Tonight, even though she was very tired, she allowed me to come over and complain about the constant punch line that is my everyday life.  She gave me insight, told me where I was wrong, but more than anything, she just listened to me.  And I don't think I'll ever be able to thank her enough for just listening to me.

I'm looking out the window while I type, again.

When the Hale pays me money, I consider throwing the check away.  It feels dirty to me.  This theatre pays me to do something that I love.   That doesn't seem right, does it?  At Applebee's, I get paid to do things that I hate.  It's hard to accept that money does not necessarily come from exclusively doing things that are miserable.  After so many years doing something that doesn't make me happy, it's hard to adjust to the idea that money can come from doing something that you actually enjoy.

 At age 28, I'm doing something that I could do for the rest of my life, and I am being PAID to do it.  Many a man have lived their lives in search of the very thing that I have stumbled upon. 

Is this blog too scattered to be enjoyed?  I try to keep in concise so that people don't get bored.
I love you for reading.
I hope my life works out perfectly.