My fingertips were chapped and my eyes half cut out by the cold, dangling from flexible stalactites as I reached my dorm, cursing. Just back from acting class.
We were about to start rehearsals, because on Friday (the thirteenth) we would perform. Now it was important that we rehearsed every night. But three of them, from what we considered the hard core, didn’t show up. Devastated, we sank even deeper into this dismal carnage. Instead of a party mood, there was this funeral mood. We all tried to smile, and sarcasm was supposed to comfort us:
‘Good for the reputation,’ said our two sympathetic acting teachers.
‘Good that we announced it sober, now we can cancel it sober.’
Before we fully realized it, we were back in the theatre café, the cross-cultural semi-intellectual bar we had rebranded as our regular pub during this slimming course.
I took, as intended for the new year, a non-alcoholic drink, hot chocolate. Poor idea, I immediately ran to the toilet, licking my burnt tongue under running water.
I started these classes because of the stories and inspiration it could give me, writing can be improved by playing scenes with others in words from others. But so far, this experience.
An anti-climax put its end to this performance, the performance that was supposed to be called ‘Suffering’. And our suffering was empty. Stranded and landed in a pointless place. The theatrics became realistic and translated some of the emptiness I found myself in. It was time to fill that emptiness, but how?
Fastfood romantics 
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