The hibernation, at long last, has met with an end!
Hence, the grandiloquent FireVanity has therein appropriated and transmogrified that which once was merely FireVaney.
Who is to blame? Who?
Only The Stage…
Merely The Stage…
God, help us, The Stage…

Yes, it is I: The FireVanity.
And, here, will I record the trials, the tribulations, the conquests, and the epinician odes that shall most certainly ensue in these solenoidal days ahead. And, I promise, my observations, be they drawn in-way-ward or out-way-ward, shall be the substance that makes the mold for the model of Mother Honesty herself!

I’ll tarry not a moment longer with my tale thus far…

First, the audition.

From my first footstep through the door of the auditioning space—nay, from the millisecond my aura seduced the breathing air within—I had the director in tears! As all are, he was overwhelmed by my numinous stage-presence. Indeed, it was this very numinousness which, in the first place, twelve and a half years ago, drove me to an early retirement.
Why, you ask, did I ever retire?
The audiences, of course.
Ensorceled with my talent, they charged up from their seats and assaulted the very stage upon my every entrance. Tear and claw, they did, for any little scrap of possessable me.
Producers deemed me “un-cast-worthy” due to my prepossessing charisma.
At least, that’s the short of it.

But, even for me, the call of The Stage is more powerful than my own puissant reflection in any face-reflecting thing; even more awesome than the symphonic sound of the English language as only I can articulate it.
Yes, words!
They dance upon my tongue as would—if one could—the finest Russian ballet dancer; they leap from my lips as would—if one could—the greatest Olympic gymnast…

Ah, but all this is widely known.

This director, at the audition, my one footfall in his path, and he was at once all gooey-eyed dribbles; his nose erupting comets of streamy snot.

And that’s merely what the sound of my feet, shoe-dighted, can do. When I’m barefooted, all the Earth quakes.

Unless—his sobs, his snot—perchance, due to the cologne sprayed ‘pon my neck...


It was

That’s my

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