Some of my very best friends have been in a room with Wesley Taylor. I hate them. However, one of them needs a bit of cheering up. So, for her, despite the fact she got to be in a room – albeit with more than a hundred other people and she had to buy a ticket – with Wesley Taylor, I offer this: The Skivvies and Wesley Taylor. WesTayTay [That’s his Twitter-handle – follow him HERE] in his underwear should put a little bounce in anyone’s day – well, actually, the bounce is not so little.

(P.S. If you have NOT watched Mr. Taylor’s webseries, It Could Be Worse, click anywhere in this note to go there. REALLY – STOP READING – JUST GO THERE.)

Now, I’ve been bouncey (though I’m no match for WTT) and so I can return to curmudgeon land. (And I have tagged this post with multiple variations on the theme: WESLEY TAYLOR NAKED BIG PENIS – and so, I should get hits in the MILLIONS today.)

Oscar Wilde said, “I find it harder and harder to live up to my blue china.”

That’s my problem. Well, not the china. I don’t have any china. It is one of many accumulations I left behind. Or, should I say, Let Go? Or, maybe, Surrendered? Matters not, it is what it is, or, rather, what it was. Except that of late I find myself suffering regret for not having packed and taken the Wedgwood service for eight I’d found priced so ridiculously low that it must surely have been the result of either someone’s mistake or ignorance about which I ever after – until recently – suffered guilt for not having said, “Shouldn’t this be more?”

That’s the kind of person I was. Now, however, I’d probably point out the character giving chinks and fissures in a few pieces that made me first fall so in love with the set and ask for a discount because of them. I’m not sure when I changed, but the process began after having taken my leave and very little else in the quiet way and on the timeline requested and still, somehow, became a character in a narrative that – when I was interrogated about it – bore no resemblance to my memory of who I was or what had occurred.

But, I let that story stand. And spent the years since wondering about stories, identity, reputation, truth. Conclusion? Everyone really does have their own reality. We all manipulate and remember it in ways that serve our narrative thread. Some of us see ourselves as heroes; some as victims; some as martyrs; some as … well, you get the drift. Thing is, way more often than I knew for the first decades of my life, no one else in your “reality” even BEGINS to consider that the voice telling the story in other people’s heads might not agree with the version in their own.

We are, in fact, all alone in our stories. And, having discovered this, I am exhausted by trying to maintain the “Charlie” of my own narrative and the narratives of so many others. Listen, I left my china behind, so, leave me alone. Let me get to the ending in peace.

Truman Capote said, “Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.”

Exactly. Although, third acts no longer exist. People can barely make it through two acts. Were it not for the need for the income from the bar and justifying the outrageous amounts now charged for theatre tickets, I’m sure shows would eschew intermissions and second acts entirely, every theatricale being about forty-five minutes long, the average extended-attention span of people nowadays.

I mean, shit, most of you won’t even read past the first paragraph of a post, let alone beyond 300 words, which was the length it was suggested I make my blog-entries. Honey, I can’t even write a grocery list in less than a thousand words.

Where was I? Right. Write. Third acts. Yeah. That. I used to write shows – a lot of shows – five or six shows a year, tailored to the students/actors I had and their strengths and needs. Now, granted,  these were often derivative and slap-dash, even more often emotionally-overwrought and cheaply sentimental, but, every so often, one had some heft. What one NEVER had – not really – was a really good second act. Impossible. For me, anyway. I had trouble with endings. Especially happy ones. I tended toward gunshots or leave taking or it was all a dream or – you get the picture – and when I went perky, it was ridiculously fast brought about by some unfathomable deus ex machina device.

I could use a deus ex machina myself right now. Or, a gunshot.

And Tennessee Williams said, “There is a time for departure even when there’s no certain place to go.”

In fact, I have a certain place to go: the gym. The elliptical and the stationary bike are calling me, reminding me that my 150 mile ride is only two weeks away.

See, here I am again … lousy ending. Well, when all else fails, Wesley Taylor big penis naked.

Wesley Taylor© Monica SimoesTaylor, Wesley Aug 2014Taylor, Wesley Aug 2014 2

Later friends.