The Third Taco

I don’t know if you know this, but I do, and this is it: When the run of a show starts, no matter what you’re doing–you can have a tiny ensemble part, you can have the lead, you can be the guy who dusts the hats, your life automatically ends. You have time to sleep and defecate, and that’s about it; but what with the sheer exhaustion of performance and the fact that you don’t get home until 11:00 most nights, if not later, the resemblance of a schedule is thrown to the wind. You eat when you have time, and aren’t passed out on your grandma’s couch, and pray to your own personal god (or cat–there’s no judgement here) that you don’t get sick. Getting sick during the run of a show is the worst thing ever. It’s like having to drink cabbage juice and person urine out of an exceptionally long and phallic straw.

With this in mind: Yesterday I ate two tacos for dinner and then went to the theatre to get ready. I brought a third taco with me, because I have a ginormous stomach and I thought, heck, if I get hungry, I don’t want to have to run to the corner store during intermission and grab a bite to eat. So I put the taco in the fridge and went off to do my stagehanderly duties. I made it through the first  act all right, but by intermission I was starving, so I did what any rational human being would do and got out my delicious taco.

We started act two, and within thirty minutes I felt like garbage. I could barely move because I was being stupid, because everyone knows you should never eat the third taco. Eating the third taco is the gastrointestinal equivalent of shooting yourself in the leg. Just say no. 

~~La Stranezza


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