I'm not sad, I'm not relieved. I'm more or less indifferent. It felt weird pitching a play, and it felt even stranger since I had the shits this morning. My stomach felt like a fermenting gallon of cider, during the stage where it's all frothy and full nasty sediment. I would know; we're brewing three gallons in the basement right now. It should be ready tonight. We'll have to siphon it from the jugs into a large crock pot, rinse out the settled sediment at the bottom of each jug, and then refill them with the hard cider. It's truly a metamorphosis more beautiful than that of the monarch butterfly. You start out with something so delicious but opaque–like the rush of excitement while formulating your story. Then you add some nutritional yeast and other indiscernible ingredients, stir it, pour into a jug with peculator on top, and then let the sediment settle over the next month–that's most like the writing process. It's ugly, smelly, and the anticipation for the end is practically unbearable. But you must be patient or the finished product will only disappoint. Then comes the fun part–siphoning the mixture with care so that you only get the purest of hard-cider nectar. The finished product should have a light golden hue and should be clearly transparent. Now you can get drunk to your ego's desire.
So what is my plan for these following months? Try not to get drunk too early in this process. Save that for when school's done and I have nothing better to do with my time.
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