This play I'm doing next is fancy, and big, and big and fancy. To me, anyway.
The director told me that she saw me months ago in an audition for something else entirely, and thought "That's our [character name here]!" and tracked me down.
And the artistic director of the company emailed me "we are beyond thrilled to have found our perfect [character name here] after four and a half long years." (The play has been in workshops/readings for that long.) Actually, she left the caps lock on, so her email sort of yelled it at me. WELL WE ARE BEYOND THRILLED TO HAVE FOUND OUR PERFECT [character name here] AFTER FOUR AND A HALF LONG YEARS.
And I've gotten really kind feedback from people who have heard the readings so far.
And the writer.
I'm not bragging (cause I haven't even done anything yet). And I'm really not complaining. An angel dies every time I complain about work, and, like, SEVENTEEN angels ... of ... babies die when I complain about exciting and challenging artistic work. I'm just ... I hope I don't lose. And by lose, I mean completely fuck it up.