And we merely players in the grand production that we call Life: desperately struggling to remember our lines, lest we appear foolish or ill-prepared in front of the ever-important audience, arbiters able to bestow joy or despair in turn; donning our respective costumes, merely glorified disguises obscuring our true identities, so that we may feel protected from judgment; feigning happiness constantly to hide our sorrow behind saccharine and simpering.

William Shakespeare chose an apt metaphor to describe this madness known as existence—I am perpetually aware of the disingenuous nature of humankind, of the artifice daily wrought by those around me. Insincerity sickens me to no end, as people (no doubt believing themselves to be showing courtesy and decorum, which amuses my morbid sense of irony) give me false hopes and superficial reassurances so as to appease my tortured spirit. Save that rubbish for someone credulous and petty enough to desire it. All I ask is that my fellow human beings be forthright and earnest, without contrivance or sycophancy.

Thus ends my diatribe for the night. Now, on to more cheerful things.

On Tuesday some friends and I went to a taping of Will & Grace down in Century City; I had to miss class, but the experience was well worth it. Apparently it takes about four hours to tape a half-hour episode, and I cherished every minute—after every scene the writers and producers huddle to assess the effectiveness of the dialogue, and to change any jokes that perhaps didn't fare too well with the audience, often coming up with punchlines on the fly; then they run through the scene a second (or even third) time.

Naturally, I saw the entire cast (alas, I was not able to meet them personally): Eric McCormack (Will), Debra Messing (Grace), Sean Hayes (Jack), Megan Mullally (Karen), and Shelley Morrison (Rosario). I was surprised to find, however, that my star-studded day did not end there; the special celebrity guest was none other than Macaulay Culkin, and after the show Mila Kunis (Jackie on That 70s Show, for those not aware) and Seth Green were schmoozing with the actors. I must say, it is somewhat surreal to be no more than five feet away from people whose faces are seen across the country on television and in movies. When all is said and done, it is the most fun I have had in ages.

I have an insane amount of work to do for my classes, but for the moment I'm not dwelling on that. Never mind that I still have nearly three hundred pages of Jane Eyre and almost all of Wide Sargasso Sea to read before my Brit. Lit. final next Thursday; let us not fret about the final paper due on Wednesday for Am. Lit.; think nothing of what horrors shall be expected of me when I finally return to French class; nor of my Philosophy final, which should present a challenge merely because the subject matter is so maddeningly facile and dull. Nay, such obsessive worrying and wringing of hands shall accomplish naught—all I can hope to do is deal with my problems one assignment at a time.

This weekend—to be specific, tonight (Saturday)—should also prove interesting as an experiment in reclusive anthropology: I have officially been invited to my first college party. No, it is neither a frat party nor a toga party, nor any other similarly puerile thing; a friend from Brit. Lit. (a wonderful young woman named Antoinette whom I have befriended) has merely invited me to a shindig she and her friends are having at her apartment. One plot-thickening side-note: there shall be (gasp!) alcohol at this party, which I suppose is not entirely uncommon at collegiate gatherings. I debated whether I should myself drink, and have decided to do so, albeit cautiously. (I am known for overindulgence and an addictive personality, so I must tread lightly when something such as alcohol is involved.) No point in being a complete teetotaler, after all—of all the myriad addictive and abusive substances currently en vogue, I find alcohol to be the least offensive, and certainly the only one in which I would ever consider partaking.

Life at the moment is pleasant enough. Some trivia: I'm revisiting Lovecraft and Baudelaire, as both are simply magnificent, and their darkness complements my current temperament; I've developed a near-addiction to Starburst jellybeans, a habit that has been effectively kicked by my empty wallet; due to Chris, I have been reintroduced to The Cure, and I must say that I like what I hear—I shall continue exploring their works; other music that has captured my fancy recently includes Tom Jones ("Delilah," "She's A Lady," "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone"), Josh Groban ("Let Me Fall," "To Where You Are," "O Holy Night"), The All-American Rejects ("Swing, Swing," "The Last Song," "My Paper Heart"), and Herman's Hermits ("Mrs. Brown You've Got A Lovely Daughter").

On a more sorrowful note, I found out the other night (from an entry by my old friend Matt) that a girl I knew in high school died a few months ago. Actually, I had heard about her death around the time that it happened (January 6, 2003), but shamefully did not recognise the name: Annette Pesquiera. Although I did not know her well, Annette had an incredible impact on me. She came to Diamond Ranch High School halfway through the year when I was a senior; I remember, when first I laid eyes on her, what a remarkable person she appeared to be. Annette was strikingly beautiful and seemed to exude confidence and competence—to be perfectly honest, I had an enormous crush on her. We only actually conversed once, and even then for no more than ten minutes, but that was enough to realise the extent of her intelligence, eloquence, and grace.

The world truly lost a treasure with Annette Pesquiera, that precious gemstone whose facets gleamed with the light of a thousand blazing stars, whose own passion for life was rivaled only by her alluring personality. Let us not, however, mourn her death and lament the life she could have led, but rather remember her as the wonderful human being she was and celebrate the life she did lead, short as it may have been. Annette, I salute you.

[Exit Orpheum.]