I spewed today about the old 40-is-invisible trope.  I spewed more about Robin Williams and how, in one conversation, he treated me more respectfully and delightedly than most men I worked in theater with.

I spewed.

I don’t want to spew anymore. I think these 100 days have been great about letting me get so much of the dirty anger out, the shallow, pointless, unpleasant-to-read, masturbatory anger.  100 Days also of letting myself write the little pains that I so longed for anyone to acknowledge.  100 Days of DO YOU HEAR ME? I’M HERE!

And…it’s good. I think that needed to be done. It’s actually boring me. The other, more complex, less whiny, more mature…better stories and thoughts can now be heard, for the me-centered yelling is out.  I can think outwardly now.  I feel even my small ideas having big shadows.  It’s good.  I look forward to the next 100 days, when the kids are in school, when there is more time, when I can be big.

But I will still happily tell the story of the actor who screamed at me at a table reading because he didn’t like “the look” on my face. (I call that look “my face”) in a teenage snotty tone. Because he really sucked.