Dear Migraine, Screw You.

I have to say, Migraine, you've taken things to a new low. Granted, your presence in my life over the past five months has never been welcome, yet you have – more or less – allowed me to live my life and meet my commitments. But yesterday? Yesterday was just plain cold. Cold and mean.

There I am, on a San Francisco street in the chilly, bright November air. I've got on grown up makeup, my hair is looking almost convincingly bouncy, I'm wearing khakis for God's sake. You see, Migraine, I'm unusually well-groomed because I'm about to enter a casting agency for MY FIRST AUDITION since I landed my commercial acting agent almost a month ago. Yeah... first one. Sort of important. But does that stop you, Migraine? No, it doesn't. As I pull out my phone to see if it's time to go in, I get the telltale flashing, the sudden blind spots, the weird lack of depth perception and the sick feeling of anticipation in my gut that tells me in approximately 45 minutes I'll be experiencing an icepick-like sensation to the eyebrow region.

I stood there, trying to will you to leave me alone, just this once. But you're a heartless bastard, Migraine, and you – in the evil personification I've assigned to you – just rocked back on your heels and rubbed your palms together while letting out a high-pitched cackle... you were just getting started.

After a couple of minutes' deliberation, I decided that I had time on my side, to some degree. If I could get in there, stumble through the audition, and get out before the pain set in, I could avoid the shame of missing my first ever "go-see." Worst case scenario, I figured, was that I'd topple over like I was having a seizure and give everyone a good scare.

Now, I will say that it's a little hard to fill out an information card when you've got a blind spot the size of a kiwi fruit and are seeing tracers, but hey, that's what keeps it exciting, right Migraine? I slowly, steadily filled in my name and vital statistics with writing that looked like a third grade version of my own. And then, I sat. Sat and took a look at the competition. The part called for a female engineer – tall, "somewhat" attractive, but approachable... a Tina Fey type. I thought, "this part was MADE for me!" Funny thing is, there are quite a few Tina Feys in SF... go figure. So, I peered around, with eyeballs that I was sure looked like acid-induced saucers, and began to feel like a moron for ever thinking this acting thing was a good idea. "They've all done this before," I thought, "none of them have hair that's struggling to return to its natural, scraggly state," and "goddamn, that woman has a perfect tiny waist and ass. Goddamn her." And goddamn you, Migraine, in case I haven't mentioned it lately.

So, we sat in these plastic chairs, waiting our turn, and as I write this I'm not sure how much of what goes on in an audition is confidential, but luckily I have a readership of... well: me. So, we sat there and listened to dance music pumping out of the audition room. We could see the camera flash from around the corner and I'm thinking "I'm pretty sure that they don't play that type of music unless they want you to, you know, dance." I sat. I waited. I couldn't even look at my phone or read because my vision was swimming, but I knew that I still had a full 30 minutes before the pain would start. The one and only thing I can thank you for, Migraine, is that with all of my dread focused on the impending nausea and pain, I couldn't spare any for being nervous about the audition.

After about 15 minutes, it was my turn. I was brought into the photo studio, home of the dance music, where I was given a lab coat and clipboard. They took some pictures of me posing "like I was really used to holding a clipboard," and then I had to dance, or rather, sort of freeze in dance poses so they could catch it on film. I shit you not, Migraine, THIS is me trying to live the dream. God help me.

So, I did it. I clutched that damn clipboard, I imagined great enginering successes and tried to show it on my face, I did bizarre and erratic dance moves in a lab coat, goddamn it. And who knows? Maybe my eyeballs looked normal from the outside.

And that was that. I got my ass in the car. I drove (probably ill-advisedly) home with white knuckles, extreme focus and lots of little whimpering noises, and I made it to the safety of a dark room and my warm covers. If getting me to lay down was the goal, then I guess, Migraine, you won.

So no, I don't think I'll be getting that part, but I just found out I have another audition tomorrow. So there, Migraine – you can suck it.