Outtakes: The Year in Pictures, 2012

It's been a long year--exactly, more or less, as long as any other year.  Now that 2012 has already ended in Australia, it's time for me to look back (quickly!) before we follow the lead of those koala-feeding Vegemite addicts. Since everyone who might even possibly be reading this entry has surely already read every entry leading up to it (Right?  I mean, who reads the last page first?) . . . I'll only hit the moments that I previously left out of this blog.  You may ask yourself how I missed blogging about these moments when they happened.  Well . . . like I said . . . it's been a long year. 

Here's what I did in 2012:

In January, I got new headshots (left) and did a mass mailing to agents.  Strangely, no agents invited me in to audition.  I think it has something to do with my resume, because the image captures me exactly.  

 

In February, I starred in The Transporter IV.  I won a "Roomie," which is the Chicago equivalent of an Oscar.  

In March, I booked my first print ad, for The Peggy Notebart Nature Museum.  The snake got equity rates.  I'm considered an extra.

Running out of funds in April, I got a job as a bouncer.  Those are not my fingers.  

In May, I tripped.  

In June, still low on funds, I got a great group rate on a tour of Wrigley Field.  All I had to do was pretend to be a first grader.  As I am an accomplished actor, this was simple.  No one suspected a thing.








In July, I got a job at Walgreens, which is based in Chicago.  I took my job very seriously and began every conversation with, "I'm afraid I have some bad news." 

In August, I reignited my career as a Dungeons and Dragons illusionist.  I learned fifteen variations of the cantrip "Dancing Lights" when I was in high school.  It was easy to pick it back up.

In September, I took my impersonation of a first grader to the next level and reenrolled in elementary school, just in time for school photo day.  This is one of the only existing photographs of me without a soul patch. 

No one was fooled, and I was forced to become a teacher.

In October, I was invited to give a motivational speech to a television.

 

In November, my lucky suspenders could not save me from my own feet, and I tripped again, this time in front of an audience.  How embarrassing!  People laughed at me. 

In December, I got new headshots.  They're not as good as the ones I used last year, but I'm going to update my resume and see what happens.  Everyone knows that people in the television, film, and advertising industry value substance over looks anyway.

This Town Needs a Hero

I am Batman.

That statement is not factually true.  I am not Batman.  That role is being played by Nick.

I am not Nick.

That statement is factually true. 

I am a member of the Red Triangle Circus Gang.

That statement is partly true.  I am not actually a killer clown, poodle lady, or acrobat.  However, I am playing the role of a member of the Red Triangle Circus Gang.  I even have the red triangle above my right eye to prove it.

That statement is not factually true.  I do not currently have a red triangle above my right eye.  Earlier tonight, I had a red triangle above my right eye.  That is when I was playing the role of a member of the Red Triangle Circus Gang.

That statement is partly true.  Earlier tonight, I played the role of a member of the Red Triangle Circus Gang.  However, I also played the role of a narrator, a masked bongo player, and a penguin with a rocket on its back.

That statement is partly true.  I did not play the role of a penguin with a rocket on its back.  The penguin with the rocket on its back is a hand puppet crafted from a paper plate and a toilet paper roll and some clever marker-ing.   

Another clarification:  I've been speaking in the past tense as if I am describing things in the past--which I am.  I will also could be able to will be speaking in the present or future tense, too, though, because the show in which I am playing these many roles was and will be performed this week and weekend.  It is past, present, and future. 

Not so much present.  Presently, I am in bed. 

A correction:  "Presently" means "shortly," not "currently."  By "presently," I meant "currently." 

Presently, I will perform these roles this week and weekend for all to see. 

That statement is incorrect.  All can not see this show.  The show is sold out, and the theater only holds 40-50 people at a time. 

That statement is not factually correct.  The theater can hold 90 people at a time according to fire codes.  There are approximately 12 of us in the cast of the show.  Therefore, the theater can hold 90, but the powers that be will allow 60 or so in for each show, 12 or so of which will be in the cast.  

Another clarification:  This show has a waiting list.  You can get on it.

That statement may not be factually correct.  I do not know if you can still get on the waiting list.  But whether you come or not, I will be there.  Why?

I am in Batman. 

That statement is partly correct. 

I am in Batman Returns.

Closer.

I am in Nine Lives: A Stage Adaptation of Batman Returns.  

Close enough.   

Internet-ional Fame

Here's a riddle for you:

What's bigger than the whole big wide world?

. . .

All right, well, I guess I won't wait for a response.  The answer is "the internet."  You can email me and tell me if that's what you were thinking.  Now, guess who's taking over the internet.

. . .

Oh.  Right.  This time the answer is "me!"  (You can email me again if you want to.)

Last week, I received the following automated email from weebly.com, the free web design and hosting site behind the new and improved www.jmmanship.com:

"We just wanted to congratulate you on all the people that have been visiting your site lately!  In the last week alone, your sites have received over 229 page views!  Since it looks like you're well on your way to internet stardom . . ."

Did you read that?  Internet stardom!  An automated email thinks I'm going to be a star!*  Regular people have recognized my potential for years.  Now, artificial intelligence is hopping on the bandwagon, too. 

Weebly.com went on to suggest several ways to better index my outlandishly popular website, ways to better link to it, even ways to make some serious cash off of it.  I would add one more thing to this list:

Set the thing up so it doesn't count hits from my own browser.

- - - - -

* Said automated email also thinks I have more than one site.  

On a Mission From God

According to Wikipedia, The Theater on the Square in Sullivan, Illinois "is known as one of the best places in the midwest to see a professional live stage production. Actors such as Mickey Rooney, Vincent Price, Alan Alda, Ann Miller, Ben Affleck, Don Ameche, Betty Grable, John Carradine, Leonard Nimoy, Forrest Tucker, Stubby Kaye and Ann B. Davis have done shows there."  That list is about to get bigger.  

As I write this, I am nestled on a couch in the same housing that once held each of those famous performers.  There are board games nearby.  There is faux leopard skin on the wall.  There are five sleeping actors resting up for tomorrow.  And there is, 100 yards away, a sign outside the Theater on the Square that reads:

Wait.  Wait.  Not that sign.^  That sign is only relevant in the post-script to this entry.  I'm talking about this sign:

Damn it.  Not that sign.  That sign* is only relevant because I'm comparing our little traveling troupe to the Blues Brothers.  (I'm Elwood.)  I'm talking about this sign:  

. . .

Oh, wait.  There is no sign.  Well, anyway.  We're doing a show here.  We're getting the boys back together, and we're playing this town for everything it'll take.  We've got a full pack of pop tarts, half a bag of bagels, it's cold, and we're wearing animal heads. 

Hit it.

---------

* Sullivan, Illinois: 98.68% white

^ Okay, so the weird part about that population sign is this.  I'm waiting . . .

The Secret

I need to share something with you, something I've discovered that's changed my life.  You might think this is a joke.^  You won't think so after you're enlightened:  

Here.  Open your eyes. *

Do you see?  You can have your dreams.  You can become one of the greatest people in history.  You can have everything you want:  happiness, health, and wealth.  You can have, do, or be anything you want.  

So what do you really want?  

(To write!  To write!  To perform!  To perform!)

I come to you today not just as a man with a dream, not just as a man on the precipice of immortality, but as something even greater: as an idea itself.  I am eternity.  More, I am a living testimony to the secret.  

But what is the secret?

It's simple.  When you desire something from the very bottom of your soul, and you request that something from the universe, then all of your wishes are fulfilled.  Knock and the door shall be answered.  If you call, I'll pick you up.

(To write!  To write!  To perform!  To perform!)

For example, this past August, in the face of disappointment, I decided to remake myself.  I gave the universe formal notice that I would like to be on stage as much as possible.  I wanted to write and perform to the point of exhaustion.    

Open your eyes again:  you can have what you want.  Last night, I performed in A Reasonable Facsimile's TV Reruns, then gave an encore that people just couldn't shut up about.  This morning, I rose at 6:30 to perform as John Adams in American Eagle Productions' 1776.  This evening, I performed a piece about the Smoot Hearings at The Encyclopedia Show.  Tomorrow, I'm Adams again; on Saturday, this guy.  Next Tuesday, I'm reading at This Much Is True.

Gosh.  You really can have what you want.  I am performing to the point of exhaustion and loving every minute of it.  Now, I am putting another request to the universe.  

Here.  Open your eyes. 

---------

* Please tell me you didn't watch that whole thing. 

^ Oh, wait.  Shit.  It is. 

Welcome to Your (My) Life

It's 10:30 pm.  I'm sitting on stage in a cardboard box.  I'm holding a microphone.  I'm wearing a straw hat.  There's this great rhythm behind me, some groovy music, and everybody's watching.

"This song goes out to the former governor of Massachusetts, Willard Romney," I say boldly into the microphone.  Crickets.  Damn.  I thought that would win me the crowd.  I mean, this is Chicago.  This is a gay-themed restaurant in Chicago.  This is a gay-themed restaurant in Chicago full of drunks and actors.  And Romney lost less than 24 hours ago to the city's favorite son.  Yet, so far the cardboard box has garnered a stronger response than my political banter. 

Well, I'm sure the song itself will get them.

Welcome to your life . . .

Ooh.  That was a little high for me.  I should have started an octave down. 

There's no turning back . . .

Oh, great.  Now, my throat's closing. 

Even while we sleep . . .
 
Okay, what is going on here?  The notes in this song are bouncing around like water droplets in Jurassic Park.  Is this song changing key?  It is.  I'm sure of it.  On purpose.  The lady running this thing hates me because I laughed at her song when she performed*.  She's messing with the music. She's fucking with me. 

Everybody wants to rule the world . . .

Oh, hey.  That "world" part sounded good.  

I banter some more.  "The second verse will be on key," I say.  The second verse sneaks up on me.

It's my own design . . .

Oh, God.  That was worse than the first verse.

It's my own remorse . . .

She hates me.  She fucking hates me.  Why is this lady doing this to me?  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I laughed at your song.  "Remember what I said about the second verse?" I banter.  "Politicians don't usually keep their word!" 

Crickets. 

 . . . rule the world . . . 

I got the "world" note again.  I'm good at that one.  Maybe I have a one note range.  Oh, shit. 

There's a room where the light won't find you. . .

Oh, shit.

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down . . .

Oh, shit. 

When they do, I'll be --

OH SHIT.  Give me my note back.  Give me my note back!

. . . world.

Ah.  I am a deeply talented singer of the word "world."  Is that a karaoke track?  Can I sing "world" over and over again to the roar of an adoring crowd? 


It's a good thing this karaoke stuff isn't competitive.  But if you'd like to do better than me, give it a shot. 

Personally, I'm going to bed.  Tomorrow morning, I'm playing the lead in a musical.

---------

* In my defense, it was a funny song.

Fifty Tints of Beaver (Chapter Two, Part Two)

Fifty Tints of Beaver

Chapter Two

Part Two

I’ve never been one for new technology, but today was the day I was going to try.  I eagerly go down in the basement.  God, look at all the cobwebs down here.  No one’s explored these regions in years.  The metaphor slaps me in the face like an overused metaphor.  It’s kind of unpleasant under here.  I see why those cleaning products are so popular.

I snap out of my thoughts when I find what I’m looking for.  An old brown box.  I slip my fingers between the soft, damp edges of the top.  I peel the worn cardboard away and reach both hands inside.  I grab blindly and sloppily until my fingers stroke a keyboard.  My old IBM laptop.  This is from an older time.  When me and Al were all over each other.  Three, four times a day.  When my muscles were firm and agile.  Before my skin was beginning to loosen around my bones.  Ugh.  I can’t think about it.  My butt bumps the concrete wall, and I barely feel it.  Plenty of padding there. 

                               

I haul the laptop up the stairs and back into the kitchen.  While I plug it in, Arabelline swats at the cord.  I kick her away.  Bad kitty.  She’s right back at it.  I kick her away again.  Bad, bad kitty.  She falls on her side, fully exposed to my abuse.  Stupid cat.  I plug my little internet adapter into the side of the laptop.  Now I know why I bought this thing.  So how do I find the mailman?

The computer tells me that I need a network to get on the internet.  I’ve never had a network in my house.  This is so stupid.  So cold.  So passionless.  I click around on some things on the screen.  Something called “Sillybus” pops up.  When I click on it, the old IBM laptop connects to the internet.  Okay, so apparently that’s a network. 

I go to the web sites that I know are popular with Stefan.  I look on the facebook.com.  There are plenty of pictures, but no way to find the newly discovered object of my fantasies.  Hmm.  I know.  I’ll look on the postal service website.  Nope.  Plenty of slogans there, but no pictures of mailmen.  The internet leaves me deeply unfulfilled.    

Then I notice a folder on the computer desktop I’ve never seen before.  It’s called “Sillybus.”  So, that’s what this network thing is.  I click on it, and it opens to show me pictures, documents, and videos with names I don’t recognize.  These aren’t my files.  Should I open them?   I look at the names, but they’re all just numbers.  101111.  011312.  123111. 

I close the folder.  Even if I’m burning on the inside right now, I’m not a criminal.  I’m not going to spend my time looking through someone else’s files.  To distract myself, I order some more assorted creams from the company I’m loyal to.  Loyalty is so overrated.  The website asks me if I should sign for them upon delivery.  I check “yes” and continue to click around.  My mind wanders.  I see the mailman coming to my door.  I invite him in.  His shirt catches on the door frame, on a splinter.  “Let me help you,” I say, and tear the gentle fabric away with my teeth.  He puts his hands on my hips and presses against me.  I bite his neck, my incisors sinking in as he moans and throws me to the couch, rolling my sweatpants down from the waist while he buries my face in the cushions.  I love that he can see me, but I can’t see him.  I feel docile.  Take me.  I’m yours.  Ravage me.  He tears my panties away and has his way with me.  My shirt is still on.  I can feel the button of his pants against my softest womanhood as he finishes.  This is exactly what I ordered. 

When I refocus on what I’m doing, I realize that I’m clicking through the “Sillybus” folder again.  I’m choosing a file.  021211.  A video comes up on my screen.  Oh my God.  This is . . . she’s . . . this is Jill and Richard!  I recognize my next door neighbors, a young married couple that’s always fighting.   They keep their shades down an awful lot.  Now I know why.  God, look at you in lingerie.  You look good.  I click through other files in the “Sillybus” folder.  My screen is flooded with pictures and video.  Sometimes Jill is behind the camera, sometimes Richard.  Sometimes neither of them.  Then, I come across a video labeled “110212.”  Oh my God.  These numbers are dates.  And that’s yesterday.  I click.  Another video.  This time, both Jill and Richard are in front of the camera.  He’s wearing a suit, and she’s wearing a short skirt and white button-up blouse.  The camera shakes.  There’s a giggle.  Oh my God.  Who’s with you?  Some third person is filming!

The screen goes black.  Arabelline has pulled the computer cord out of the wall with her paw.  Aggghhhh.  Stupid cat!  I shove her aside with my foot again.  I plug the computer back in.  The screen boots up, but when I get back to my computer desktop, the Sillybus folder is gone.  Agghh.  Stupid, stupid cat!  I look for it everywhere, but I don’t know enough about computer to find it.  Or maybe it’s just gone.  Eventually, I close the laptop and go back to fantasizing about the mailman, which leads me to recess into the living room.  I really can’t take much more of this.

No Excuses

The teeth can say nothing without the tongue...
Because your tongue is mine! Mine! MINE!

These are the closing lyrics to Violenza Domestica, by Mr Bungle, the 1980's experimental band from Eureka, California.  Some people seem to have taken said lyrics literally.

I am one of those people.

Would you like to be one of those people, too?  Would you like to be like me, to do everything I do?  If you're reading this blog, I can only assume you are intelligent enough to answer, "yes." 

Fair enough, but you're going to have some difficulty following in my footsteps, because for the next 72 hours, they will be choreographed.  If you haven't been at rehearsal, you're not going to know where to step.^   I know, I know.  You didn't know about rehearsals.  You weren't cast in this show.  You don't live in this city.  All standard excuses, but I'm not accepting them.  Because I could be making excuses, too.

I'm not a dancer.  My hips don't work.  I had never heard of Mr Bungle.

So let's both quit with the bullshit and just show up this Tuesday at Martyr's, all right?  I'll be there at 6:30, but the dancin' doesn't begin until 8.

"But I don't even know anything about this show . . ."

No.  If you are the first to click on the first link in this entry, you will win a FREE BEHIND THE SCENES SNEAK PREVIEW of the show.

"But I didn't get a personal invite to the show . . ." 

No.  If you are the first to click on this link, you will get your very own invite to the show!

"But I don't have any money."

No.  If you are the first to contact me, you will win a free ticket to the event.  And you will

Dance with me
I want to be your partner. 
Can't you see?

But I won't sing.  I'll leave that to Mr Bungle.*

-------------------
^ First is the entrance looking all sexy-like (11 counts).  Then, there's the back-and-forth head thing  (5 counts).  Then there's the pose for 2 counts, followed by the middle couple spinning, followed by our spin.  Then, we tango (kind of) in every direction.  Then . . . You know what?  Just come Tuesday and try to follow along. 

* "But I've never heard of Mr Bungle . . ."

Fifty Tints of Beaver (Chapter Two)

Fifty Tints of Beaver

Chapter Two

Part One

I had seen the postman from a distance, but I’d never known his name.  We’d never had reason to come in contact.  We’d never been close enough to feel the energy of each other, to let each other’s silent pheromones speak in their evolutionary code.  Now I’m staring at him through the door frame.  It’s drizzling, and his soft sky blue uniform clings to his legs.  He has a nice figure.  I can tell that he walks his route.  Neither rain nor sleet nor . . . How does that go?  I can’t think straight right now.  His arms, tanned from the weather, drive down to his wrists, which confidently grasp a brown box.  He’s holding his package, and he’s about to give it to me.  His package is about to become my package. 

“Mrs Forester?”

I snap out of my daze.  “Ms,” I stammer.  “Ms Forester.”  I swear I see a glimmer in his eye. 

“Could you sign here?”  His bold step forward with an electronic pen and pad contradicts his politeness.  There’s a rawness to this man, the same rawness I saw in Arabelline when she devoured her tuna.  He masks it, but I can see through.  I take my own bold step forward, out into the rain. 

“I  . . . I didn’t know the postal service was using these,” I manage to say.  He laughs.  “FedEx doesn’t have it all,” he says.  “Only for special packages, though.  You know.”  I don’t know, but I want to hear more.  God, he may as well be winking at me.

“I don’t even remember what I ordered,” I tell him.  I ordered baking supplies.  This package is full of assorted creams.  That’s why I have to sign for it.  It’s one of those special refrigerated deals.

“It’s one of those special refrigerated deals,” he says.

 “I was just thinking that,” I say back.  We stand for a minute.  My lips tremble.  He laughs.  He’s nervous.  I’m making him nervous.  Aren’t I? 

“Well,” he says. 

“Florence,” I chime in, extending my hand.

“Florence Forester?” he asks.

“My maiden name is O’Neil.  I just haven’t gone back to it.  Yet.”  He nods. “Legal stuff.  You get that.” Is he younger than me?  I can’t tell.  He keeps himself in such good shape.  Should I tell him more?   “Well,” he says again.  “Have a good day.”  He walks away.  I ogle, now completely shameless.  I want to call back to him, but instead I watch him disappear down the useless suburban street.   

I close the door and fall back against it with a sigh.  Oh my God.  What is happening to me?  I feel like a school girl.  I’m so . . . Oh my God.  I’m so wet.  I kick off my shoes, soaked with the drizzle.  I should have invited him in.  Better, I should have let him take me there on the porch.  No one was out on the street.  Even if they were.  Even if they saw us.  Even if they watched him ravage me in my front yard, if they witnessed us, covered in mud and grass, rolling in the unmowed lawn, tearing away uniform and oversized sweatpants alike.  So what?  So what if they observed every minute of his dark brown fingers weaving in between my pale white ones while he pressed against me, crushing my pleasantly helpless body between man of stone and earth so soft?  So what if the neighbors strolled past the imprints each day after our communion?  The marks our bodies left would form a moat of passion.   I would order cream every day inside my virgin castle, and every day I would pray for rain.  And every day my knight would return to take me again.  Beaver Lane would envy us. 

I scold myself for my fantasies.  Bad girl.  You didn’t even get his name. 

Humilidad

Empezaba èsta entrada en español.

It took me almost twenty minutes to write that sentence, and I still can't remember which alt-# combination it takes to make an ì.  I mean an ñ.  There it is.^

Back in August, I auditioñed for the eñsemble of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Bliñd, the longest ruññing show in Chicago.  The aftermath is well documented. 

I commented in an email:

"So there it is."

This past week, Barrel of Monkeys held annual auditions.  As they were only auditioning for Spanish speakers, minorities, and musiciañs, I did not participate.  Twenty-two local performers were cast.  Clearly, none of them are me. 

A friend commented in email:

"Maybe the universe is telling you to zig instead of zag."  

This past weekend, I spent 6 hours in Spanish conversation classes* classified as "intermediate."  I frequently had to ask the instructor to repeat himself.  I couldn't pronounce or remember the word "vegetariano."  I couldn't say such basic things as "never mind" and "either."

I commented under my breath:

Ay, Dios mio.  

Last year, a friend commented about a piece I'd written:

"Cleverness is great, but I think sometimes it's easy to use cleverness to cover up truth."  

Last month, a friend wrote into a performance piece:

"I believe being an actor means showing honesty and vulnerability on stage."

I said to myself:

"Maybe I am done with this."

I thought to myself:

"Scary." 

. . . 


Yesterday, I agreed to perform in the November installment of TV Reruns at Mary's Attic.

Yesterday, I began writing for a two-person performance in the winter.

Yesterday, I booked a performance with my esteemed colleagues "Tea, Jake, and Dave" for tomorrow night.  At 8 pm, I will be improvising a 10 minute solo piece at The Atlantic.  I haven't done that for at least four years.

Yesterday, I signed up for a December Spanish class considered "Advanced."

I'm saying to myself:

"What the hell am I doing?  Haven't I learned anything from my failure?'

Me estoy preguntando:

"¿De què tengo miedo?"

And I got that upside down question mark right on the first try.  Like this:

½

Oops.

Vulnerability, indeed.

------------------------------
^ I now know what the NUM LOCK key on my keyboard is for. 

* Yes, I know.  The wonderful secrets about me just keep on coming as you peel away the e-layers!

Fifty Tints of Beaver (Chapter One, Part Two)

Fifty Tints of Beaver

Chapter One

Part Two

I give the cat tuna, and the turning of the can opener has a peculiar effect on me.  Grind.  Grind.  Grind.  I like the way the can resists the strength of my wrists and fingers.  I fight with its feistiness.  I twist and turn, my whole body getting into the action until wetness spills out onto my thumb.  The can is open, and I can smell the wet tuna.  I slide my thumb into my mouth and lick it clean.  I discard the can top into the trash and dump the cat’s meal into her bowl.  I watch her eat.  Look how she devours it.  There is no shyness in her animal instincts.  Shyness is learned, and I’m tired of being a good little student.  I’d rather let loose my own inner feline, the one that’s been clawing and meowing at my cervix for almost 60 years now. 

The phone rings.  I answer impatiently.  A startled voice responds from the receiver.

“Mom?”

“Stefan.”  There’s silence.  “Stefan, is everything all right?”  He’d been having trouble in class last week.  Rather than seeking extra help from his professor or a counselor, though, he’d called to talk to me about it.  He calls to talk about everything.  Last week, even ten minutes ago, I would have cherished this attention.  Now, after the encounters with the books and the tuna, his constant need only makes me feel used up. 

“Mom, I have a problem.”  This news doesn’t surprise me.  “It’s Anna.”  I gasp.  “What’s wrong with Anna?”  There is more silence, then he says, “I don’t think she wants me anymore.”  I feel a tingle at the word ‘want.’  His timing is poor or perfect. 

“Tell me more, honey.” 

“Well, last time we . . .”  There is more silence.  “I shouldn’t talk about it,” he decides.  Is it wrong to ask for more information?  Is it sick to exploit Stefan’s openness with me in order to gain access to the love life of someone still in their prime, anyone in their prime? 

“You can tell me anything, sweetheart.”

There is more silence, then Stefan says, “I don’t think she’s satisfied with . . . with my manness.”  This conversation has crossed a line, but I can’t help myself.  I want to know more.  Like a car accident, or like a terrible book that you just can’t put down, my attention is fixed. 

“Did she say that?”  My voice quivers.  “No.  I can just tell,” he says.  I hear the mailman outside and turn toward the door.  When I do so, the phone cord wraps around my upper thigh.  I don’t adjust it.    

“How, honey?”  I ask.  “How can you tell?” 

“Well . . .”  he says.  I pull on the phone cord and turn three more times around.

“Do you rush?” I ask.  The other end is silent.  “Where do you put your hands?  Is she ready for you when you take her?”  The phone cord is now cutting off my circulation, and the pull I’m exerting on the line is squeezing even tighter, tighter.  I hear my son’s voice from the other end of the line.  “Mom, you’re freaking me out.” 

I blink and hang up abruptly.  He’s right.  This morning was exhilarating, but it was too forgiving.  Now, my insatiability has driven me to the brink of madness.   I’m out of control, and I need someone to take away my power.  I pull the phone cord from the wall.  It pops out with a satisfying flaccidness.  That will be a start, a start to my retribution.  But only a start.

Suddenly, I hear a knock on the door.