Well, all of those reasons are the same.

Collation.

Of the yearbook.

It would seem like an amazing day of euphoria. Finally removing the thorn from the sleeping lion as it is just about to abandon all hope. But here it is. The entire yearbook, collated, jocked and bound in a symphony of organised movement.

Last year, I remember feeling so proud of the accomplishment. All 125 pages laid out in front of me. I had accomplished the impossible with limited means. Compliments were met with astonished welcome and smiles were all around. And when we were done, Bob, Ian Roger and I sat down to talk about simple things in the midday sun.

This year, things were not the same. As I saw before me the stark white gleam from the pages lining the actor's studio; I could not help but feel resentment and distaste for what I had accomplished. The grey storm clouds and mist rolling past the skies above was a perfect companion to the anti climax of my year.

Over worked, and under paid I had taken it upon myself to bring the baby into the world regardless if it killed my spirit or not. And slaughter my soul it did. For now, instead of feeling pride when people compliment me, I only hear the sounds of pity emitting from their compliments, knowing the sacrifices I had made to carry the project until its' fruition.

And then I stupidly broke Cameron Nadler's Ray Bans. So I had to replace them. On the up side, I now own a pair of pirate glasses.

Even when the camp director gave me his kudos for the yearbook, I found no rousing passion for this hideous construction of despair. I realised that I have been working so hard, that I've neglected to put a smidgen of effort into anything. And now, I have finally checked out. mentally, I have escaped this place of unhappiness.

Even the crescendo of Stew Leonards for gelato and coffee couldn't excite me.

This whole day pretty much cemented why I won't be returning next year. That and my talk with some of the staff at dinner who rationalised that my unhappiness this summer was due to an average working day of 12 hours for a slow day and 16 + hours a day in yearbook mode.

Tonight, as my bunch of thespians presented BRUCE AND THE BEANSTALK in a hilarious adults only edition STAFF PLAY, I couldn't help but feel a lament for this feeling of awesome sauceness that pretty much lasted all year in 2009.

It was hard to have people look at me today and say things like

"it is so good to see you happy again"

or

"seeing you happy, makes me so much more happy."

When really, on the inside I am crushed that my home has been taken away from me. And I am alone.

Fruit of the Moment: Seattle Blend