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Post by Alex on Jun 27, 2006 20:56:35 GMT -5
Well. Here I am. It's bloody posh, this Opera Poopulaire or whatever it's called, but I think it'll do. It's a sight better than London, anyway. My audition went well; or at least I think it did, as this fellow watching said it was good. Well, he said it was interesting, but I know I'm good. Not sure if I have a job yet, but I do know no one's caught on to my little ruse. Been tradin' glances with some of the lovelies already in residence, who would never think of it if they knew what I really am, so I must be a right comely bloke.
But that's a bit o' the fun of it, innit? Tragic, though, having to go through my life like this.
Un-understood. In hiding. In denial of my true nature, and all that.
Aw, hell. Should be fun.
Luckily no one can read this, as I'm writing in English. Too many letters in French, don't you know.
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Post by Alex on Jul 3, 2006 20:43:46 GMT -5
Still no work, but I'm being fed and bedded, so no harm there. How odd this place is. Pretty girls and prettier boys wandering around at all hours, mysterious goings-on, multiple suicides, people who aren't what they seem.
Much like home, now I think of it.
But I find myself, despite my sunny, freckled disposition, increasingly jealous. Sometimes I wish to be treated as a woman is by a man, but by another woman. The charade is fun, I grant you, but will anyone ever look behind it to see the real me? And if they do, will they run screaming for their not-so-virginal beds? Without me?
For were I to be revealed as a woman, I could not hold up to the comparison. Everyone here is so much lovelier than I. Had I the dark eyes, the shimmering waves of hair, the alabaster skin, the firm, high bosoms of these girls, I would need only a mirror to be happy. Alas, as it is, I cannot even hold my own as a man. I am clumsy and red-haired and silly. That one dark-eyed vixen smiled at me at auditions--I think her name was Aria?--but I have not seen her since. And that mysterious voice that tugged at the sensitive soul beneath all this bluster has not shown its maker.
Oh, to be pretty like them! Or handsome like the others! Instead I am caught between my desires and my reality.
Alone, for all my mutterings.
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