February 28, 2004

I’m bleeding all over my fingers. “Stop picking your nose,” the voice inside my head commands. The abundance of dark blood on my napkin makes me think that I’m bleeding from somewhere near my heart. My last Fringe performance ended an hour ago, and the beautiful peple I fell in love with are already drifting from my life. It hurts even to breathe.

Fraser grabbed me when we got off stage and humped my leg violently while holding me against a wall — he’s going to miss me too. Katie West ran away before he could do the same to her — I’m going to miss her wretchedly.

I feel naked and lonely.

But not nearly as naked as I felt backstage when I had to undress while four girls watched in amazement. What were they doing back there? They certainly got to an eyeful since I didn’t have anything to cover myself with as I was stripping. Down went the pants and the underwear. I looked up and smiled awkwardly before storming onstage with my towel.

They didn’t bother to move when I came back to drop off my towel and put on my pants. I hope it was good for them, too. The towel scene was certainly good for Alysia, who screamed at me afterwards, “We got to see your balls!” Apparently I lifted my towel a bit too high on stage.

I’ll miss the Fringe nakedness and violence. And I want this bleeding to stop.