I have a confession. I love drama. Love it, love it, love it, love it. Crying, screaming, and laughing are among my favorite things to do (along with breaking into spontaneous song, dancing, flinging myself, melodramatically, onto the bed and erupting into a slew of profanities). Intensity makes me feel alive and I think that’s why I used to do crazy things like have unprotected sex with strangers. I wanted thrills. I wanted danger. I wanted to magnify the everyday experience of life. I still do. That’s why I act. When acting, I have permission to go from crying hysterically while delivering a made-up monologue about my nonexistent dead father to calmly discussing the time I hacked my lover in to a million pieces (I’ve never actually done this, but it can be fun to play a role) to laughing about, well, anything.
Performing gives me an outlet for the rampant emotionality that used to express itself in self-destructive misbehavior. I’ve always lived a somewhat amplified life and acting gives me the opportunity to vicariously experience tragedy and joy and everything in between without actually having to screw up my life. It’s a refreshing change of pace to experience drama in art rather than in my everyday existence.