I SWEAR TO OZ I was inches away from Cynthia Erivo

It was in my HAND, well arm, craddlized alongside my Baby Doll SpillSpin, a Goodwill jacket, and my Beis belt bag.

“Cynthia! Cynthia!”

I wish myself singing, but wishing only wounds the heart. I am two clock ticks too late! I say nothing! I sing nothing! I scurry dumbfairily behind black heels with blood red souls and bald head. Me, disguised in a hoodie and sweats, looking

baggy, baggy, baggy

saggy, saggy, saggy

haggy, haggy, haggy

reaching to my arm to grab

My phone! Not Tattle Tale, FYI!

I do not even see Cynthia, for two clock ticks too late, as I am enamortified by Ariana’s jiggle of a wiggle, black heels with blood red souls, and bouncing brown ponytattle between the body guards.

“Ariana! Cynthia!” I wish I called, but wishing only wounds the heart. “Meet your lovechild, Spill!” Queue little Spill, bald headed and brown, sporting a sparkizzy sheer pink schrunchizzy.

I am in shock! I am in the presence of the two most famous women in the world! Except Me, of course! Desmina de Vil!

I am INCHES away from Cynthia Erivo! But more than 61 inches (our shared height) so I do not reach out! I do not say hi! I do not hand Cynthia Erivo, Elphaba incarnate, a copy of Tattle Tale, FYI Edition I!!

Shizzle Sticks!

Darnitude You, Desmina!

You fumblified it! You frickified it up!

Please! Please!!! PLEASE!!

Dear Oz and Gods, if You are out there, please give Me another chance. To look into Cynthia’s big brown eyes! Invite Me to the Golden Globes! The Academy Awards! Cynthia!! The Oscar goes to You! I’m sorry!!

“Cynthia,” I’ll say, with a smile and a shake, “Thank you. You are badassitude, pure talentocious, and fierciful! I am Desmina de Vil, and this is Tattle Tale, FYI.”

*POP!*

Earlier that fateful day, I bore the traffic across the bridge and arrived at an undisclosed location for my art modelling gig. It was Spill’s first time on the premises, so I took them to greet the Goblin (once green, now bronze) who resides in the fountain. I asked his advice about a boy named Luke.

“Patience, must have You,” the ancient spirit advised.

But I am tired of being patient and poor.

That day, I cursed a $12 parking meter and a $8 bridge toll. At my first gig, I filled up two jugs of water to avoid drinking from lead poisoned pipes. At my second gig, I stuffed my face with gold fish, m&m’s, and nuts for dinner. I stuffed my bag with Chobani yogurt and Tillamook cheese slices from the company’s fridge.

Imagine Me, in a basement of said undisclosed location, nude in front of artists waving my fans to battle a tornado. Imagine Me, paused, poised, and posed with nothing to do but watch my imagination. I take a dagger to my heart and my throat, simply because blood red is an interesting color. Imagine Me, green and blue all day because my boyfriend and my not boyfriend have heart eyes for others. Which is fine, but I want more attention!!

“When will I get my big break?” I wonder. “I am hot! I am brilliant! I am talented!”

Imagine Me, jaw dropping when one of the two artists present informs Me CYNTHIA AND ARIANA on the premises for a Wicked for Good screening!! At just the right moment, he transforms into a Munchkin with an invitation to a ball. Imagine us, winding through hallways white, yellow, and gold, slipping into a packed theater.

Imagine Me, placing Spill on the banister to applaud the arc of Elphaba and Glinda. Imagine Me, signing a copy of Tattle Tale, FYI as

Cynthia reminds Me that while home can be a treacherous places that ostracizes and chucks you to the forest, it is still home. It has still shaped You, and the choice to fight or to leave is yours. I think of my Mother.

Ariana reminds Me that being pretty, perfect, popular, pink (and hilarious!) may conceal an inner darkness that cannot be escaped or ignored. Eventually, we must face ourselves. I think of Her.

John Chu, director of the film, reminds Me that the wonderful is possible, even and especially for a young, Asian, Bay Area kid from an immigrant family. I think of Me.

Imagine Me, under the full moon after the events have transpired, laughing maniacally.

Three Wonderful Wicked Witches

And Spill we made our Wishes!

Full Moon Circle

Cynthia, Ariana, and S-icle

AKA

Elphaba, Ariana, and

Desi- Des- DESMINA!!

Wickedness may be cast without warning. But Wickedness may be owned with fervor and passion. And I want to be wicked, but I did not hand Cynthia Erivo a copy of Tattle Tale, FYI.

I could not imagine Me. The magnamonious magic of the moment was so stifling that a rare opportunity quickly became a missed one.

But the magic lingers, nonetheless.

And Yes! This story is a rumor, and a fact, the kind that is True!

*POP!*

And like Glinda’s bubble at the beginning and end of the movies, the magic dissipates and the full moon wanes.

I can hear the sounds of my reality.

A helicopter on a manhunt above my roof. The click of my car when the engine doesn’t start. Exasperated laughter that turns into hysterical bawls.

I can hear the sounds of my para-reality.

Delusions of grandeur. “This is going to make Me famous!”

The boy in a dream. “Someone has to bite the bullet.” I guess it’s Me.

My thoughts.

“I am not Wonderful. I am not Good. I am not even Wicked. I am Ordinary. I am just an ordinary queer with an ordinary life.”

I can hear the sounds of my reality.

The children counting to 10 in different languages near the playground. The murmur of the wind on a small hike by the shoreline. The cheep cheep of birds who find refuge in potted plants in the concrete jungle. The drum and bass dropping and beats ring ring tingling as I shake shake shake my arse in a moment that feels like

Revolution.

I realize that every moment does not need to be wonderful, good, or wicked. That I do not need to be wonderful, good, or wicked. I can just be.

So I am left with Me, my shitty car, and a copy of Tattle Tale, FYI.

On the edge of Anti-Wickedness.

*POP!*