Act 1 Scene 2 (A Room Full of Mirrors)

Fuck me, and when Voodo Chile skips I think about burning my idiosyncrasies down with a flamethrower. I fight technology for a while, but it battles back and mandates that I sign, scan, and replicate an official document. I fail miserably. The corners are cut and my skin turns pale. I make a phone call to the fringe and within minutes my volition crumbles into hues of lamenting grey. I hang up, then call back and press all the numbers simultaneously until someone finally speaks. Customer service, why do you feel the overwhelming need to rape me of my easy living naiveté?

Girls in the Pacific Northwest muse at the curling of my moustache while ambitiously rolling joints from jars of grass, and I throw a ball across the yard for the dog and then lie on my back and drink Coors light. The sun heats up upon my stomach, and I start to worry that my flesh may begin to tan. Darkness convenes in my mind. The wind blows wistfully. Shape up, size down your ego, ship-out your mendacious tendencies. Sucker punch the melancholy humors and interchange them with a new Buddha and a better configuration of dawn.

Snake pits, golden hair looming over wretched cosmopolitan flesh, hard bellies, and rolled eyes. Socialites teeming at an incestuous extravaganza of new born aficionados, drunk on their own myopia and steadfastly ignoring a congregation of wild things who are burying themselves alive.

You move me like a piece of bleeding pork. Burnt and split through the middle, whining about revision and the smashing success of your newfound celibacy.