Better Get on with It

My sunglasses couldn’t keep the glare of your dishonesty from blinding me. Oh well, of course, perfidy once again. That’s when I’m told the F.B.I. opened a file on me. I’m awe-dumbstruck… she says “You prefer your imagination to reality.” So we break up. And I move out. And move into a room without a window. I have to use a payphone in the hallway… half the time it smells of bad breath. The mattress on the bed is foam rubber. The frame is held together by duct tape. On the wall facing the bed is an oil painting of a forlorn schnauzer. That figures. I open the closet door. A gay guy walks out. He’s very sarcastic. “Oh, thanks for outing me. I really appreciate it.” He leaves. Alone again. And very relieved. Although…well, we won’t get into all that now…I have another one of those mixed reactions. It’s hard to explain. It’s sort of like swallowing too much standing water and forgetting all about the mosquito eggs. It’s raining. Again. I don’t even own an umbrella. Or a slicker. So I stay in. An outsider inside. Typical. I sit on the bed and meditate. Ok, so I’m sleeping. Same thing. My dream gets greenlit by a major Hollywood studio but I soon go over budget. “I’m working on impulse!” I say. They take my dream away from me, recast it, reshoot it, reedit it. When it opens wide, it grosses $63.42.