I’m leaving tomorrow. On a jet plane. Going back to Cali. I’m fitting all the cliches in here that I can.

And posting my list of big fears:

I will miss the plane.
The plane will go down in the Grand Canyon.
The plane will go down where John Denver’s plane went
down, and I will become a John Denver statistic and the
subject of various conspiracy theory web pages.
I will miss my connecting plane.
I will get lost in LAX.
My boyfriend will kill me before the flight is over from all of
my endless chatter about “well, what if…?” “Are you
sure we…?” “Did you remember to….?”
No one will pick me up.
No one will pick me up and it’s because they meant not to
pick me up.
No one will pick me up and when I call them I hear them
laughing in the background telling me no one is there
although they shouldn’t have an answering machine
in a hotel room.
I will get lost in Los Angeles.
I will be the palest person there.
I will be the shortest person there.
The hotel will have an outhouse.
The cab driver will accidentally take me to a monastery
when I tell him I’m a “Monk.”
I’ve forgotten all my props/costumes/lines.
I will have forgotten all my underwear.
All I can find is some other girl’s underwear.
My luggage gets switched.
The only thing open is “Arby’s.”
I’m attacked by white tigers.
I can’t find my troupe.
We get to the theatre and we say, “We’re performing here
tonight.” and they say, “You don’t look like Air Supply,
but okay.”
The show is a disaster. No one calls us back.
The show is a complete success. No one calls us back.
We get called back to perform on “Barney.”
We get a guest spot on “The Magic Hour.”
I look for my lost contact for an hour before I remember
I have 20/20 vision.
I get random, unpredictable, uncontrollable vomiting in front
of any person of any importance (bellmen included).
Someone mistakes me for Carol Channing.
My parents find a way to the show, traveling thousands
of miles to sit next to Mr. Big Head Honcho(s) and say
“I’ve been telling her to stay with computers for years,
but she won’t listen. I’m sorry about this. I’ll make sure
she’s grounded when we get home.” And then they call
my landlord and get me grounded.
We forget our own names.
We lose members of the troupe during the performance.
No one laughs.
No one laughs.
No one laughs.
Someone’s doing that nervous coughing audiences’ do.
We’re the ones doing the nervous coughing.
I lose my voice.
I lose my vision.
I turn into a sheep. (these things keep me up at night, okay?)
I’m doing the wrong show.
I’m on the wrong stage.
I’m wearing scuba gear.
I’m wearing Richard Gere.
My teeth fall out.
No one notices my teeth have fallen out.
I trip and fall off the stage.
I get so nervous I pee.
I get lost in the theatre bathroom.
I get locked inside the prop closet.
I notice my name is on a list for “reserved seating.”
I lose all my money.
I wake up with “Comedy Sux” tattooed on my wrist.
I wake up in a drive-in movie parking lot in Tuscon.
I forget that I have a show.
I sleep through the show.
I talk on the phone with my parents instead of going to the
show.
For some reason the show is canceled so I can have a
wedding to some guy I’ve never met but has promised
me a “nice sitcom.”
I get famous and lose it all in a strange scandal.
That scandal involves all of my teeth falling out.
Sharks swim on land and take me away to their watery
lair.

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