Why am I so confident? Because I’m talented, that’s why. It’s just facts. Undeniable truth.

Listen, I’ve been dancing for five years, and I’m already better than guys in my mediocre program who’ve been dancing for six or seven. What does that tell you? I’m gifted, that’s what. And on top of that, get this—teachers usually partner me with women who’ve been dancing for close to twenty years. That’s two decades. Fifteen years longer than I’ve been training. Every time those women soar through the air, legs extending with superhuman articulation through grand jetés and Russian pas de chats, it’s me who’s doing all the work, lifting their hundred- pound bodies with exaggerated grunts of effort in order to get them off the ground. Now, let me ask you something. How would these experienced dancers leap so gracefully if I wasn’t there to lift them?

They wouldn’t.

So it really doesn’t matter that I still haven’t figured out how to stay on count, or that my grand battement doesn’t reach higher than my shin and my arabesque is basically a shitty dégagé. I’m going to nail the ABT audition because I bring power to the stage. My legs fire out into those truncated positions with the force of a frappé.

That’s right. I know frappé means “to strike.” And I’m not afraid to strike my way to the top.

On that note, I’d like to address the frequent criticism of my “one dimensional” movement quality. People have said my tendency to be unnecessarily sharp and abrupt with my port de bras, in combination with my utter lack of spacial awareness, is a recipe for disaster. To be clear, I understand what they’re getting at. Have people around me gotten hurt? Sure. But were those concussions really my fault when it was the other people who weren’t able to keep up? You tell me. I doubt this will be an issue once I’m amongst my fellow pros of the American Ballet Theatre. S’all I’m sayin.

Some have also claimed I’m only getting by on penis points. For a lot of guys, that’s just the cut and dry truth. It’s no secret that ballet is structured around the gender binary, and the field likes to give their men a leg up (pun intended), but when it comes to me, that’s simply not the case. I got skills, baby! Never mind the fact that my legs don’t exactly turnout. I mean, let’s keep it real. I’m straight up pigeon-toed. Bow-legged. Got biscuits for feet. Chronically hiked shoulders. Doesn’t matter. All that might be true, but consider this: have you seen how high I can jump?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. ABT will see, too. They don’t miss a beat…unlike me who’s missed every beat in every petite allegro combination I’ve ever attempted, which, like I said, doesn’t matter because I’m awesome.

I’m gonna drop another truth bomb on you. There’s a reason I only date primas. The field’s future principal dancers, if you will. Or, at the very least, women whose bodies have principal potential. It’s because they’re on my level, see? They’re the only women who are. So I’ll keep my problematic standards and continue fetishizing primas, despite the growing collective awareness that these elitist values are rooted in racism and sexism. You are who you surround yourself with, so I surround myself with tiny-headed, short-torso’d and giraffe-limbed goddesses that Balanchine would adore. That’s how I keep from getting dropped down a peg. WWBD? Head in the game. Eye on the prize.

Anyone who faults me for the methods by which I’m going to succeed is just jealous. They’re jealous because they know I’m the best of the best, and ABT is going to look past my lack of training and poor work ethic to see that I’m God’s gift to ballet. They’ll take one look at me and know I’m special. Why? Because they’re fucking ABT, that’s why. ABT doesn’t miss.