(diaryland) September 17, 2007 - 7:53 p.m.

Last week, I dressed up as a flapper for a party, which was cool. This week, I dressed up as a late eighteenth century aristocrat for a party, which was cool too. Maybe I could dress up every week.

Yesterday, I found myself on a stage as a page turner for a concert. It was a trio. I don't like being a page turner, especially if it's for an hour's worth of music I've never heard before. I had never met the guy playing piano either, and this was a serious concert. There were repeats in the music, too. All this, as well as sprinting backstage mid-conversation in order to get there in time, led to me having very visible, sweaty armpits that I periodically had to fling in the face of the pianist, not to mention display to the audience.

I asked some guy up the back of the auditorium whether you could see the dark sweat patches on my pits, and he claimed that you couldn't. I didn't ask him during the concert, I asked him after the concert.

Oh, yeah, and there was this one time during the concert when the pianist reached for the page to turn it himself. I was like, no fucking way, man. Don't touch it. So I leapt up and turned it. It wasn't like I wasn't going to. I was fully getting ready to do it. My little, bespectacled, beady eyes were glued to every single fucking note, man.

The good thing was, even though I was oblivious to the music being performed, I got in for free, and I got fifteen bucks in food vouchers for the day.

I never want to do it again, though.