I'm at the crossroads here. Ok what do I do . . . first thing, coffee. My jerk dog got me up on my day off. Now he's sleeping again. Okay coffee, hold on.

Ah glorious coffee, okay so the crossroads I'm talking about is only a small intersection. I just have a shite load of things to do and I'm trying to figure out where to start. I have enough writing to do to keep me busy for my lifetime, but the main problem is that I have clothes to put away and dirty dishes.

And unfortunatley I want pancakes.

OH HELL!!! what to do . . .

(beat)

I will drink this fine cup o joe, walk into the kitchen, throw the raquet ball for ma dog to get his ass up (he's fat), put on a cd on the box in the kitchen (poss some Moxy Fruvous to get the blood flowing), wash the frying pan and mixer bowl (whilst shaking my tush), make pancakes, put too much oil in the pan so they fry not just cook, then do half of the dishes, finish the pot of coffee, forget the clothes, take a shower, maybe shave, take dog out, drive to Cafe Aroma (williamsville), meet with prof about life and a book I'm writing, come home, take dog for walk, go to Spot, more coffee, write a play about two guys who can't physically leave their seats, lest they get shot, and eventually end up at the Pink in the wee hours on the morning.

sweet, thanks for da help.

Now don't you tease me with that Beckett on film thing. And they say that cooking is the way to a man's heart . . . nah.

Yes, that would be good to see that, and I'm encouraged at the fact that you know him, HA just kidding, but you'd be surprised. Looks like we have a first annual Beckett night coming up. Y'all are welcome over here if you like awesome dogs. E-girl, how do we do this thing then, any ideas? Or if you were talking about the near future, that'd be great too. It's just that I need some inspiration. I have to write a play by Tuesday and I'm everywhere right now, and in the existential sense.

Oh wait Saul's not gonna be able to make it, let me think about this.

Tsk, tsk, Emily. Actually, that funny, but true. It is possible to hang out sans P man but only as long as I can talk freely about the American Dream. That's my deal. Whaddya say?

Oh and Robin, no one liked Leonardo. That power tripping anal-retentive bastich. He'd nix Splinter if he had the chance.

Yeah Paul, I tried to email you too, no go.

I am standing on a ledge on the side of a cruise ship which was at most, a foot wide. Below me, there is the ocean, with the waves picking up once again like they always do. But the water is a good 300 feet below my feet and so that I didn’t fall into the abyss of certain death, I found that I am hanging onto the side of the ship. My elbows stretched, as if I were getting searched, onto a sloping (upwards) diamond plated ledge, also jetting off of the ship in front of me. I look forward and see two people, a man and woman, both 20 something. They're talking, rather he's talking to her, and yet she looks somewhat concerned with my situation. They too are a bit stranded you could say, but at least they're able to sit down.
The guy gestures for me to grab a plastic PPR yellow colored handle, seeing as though I could lift myself up with it. I don’t trust him because earlier, I had attempted it and pulled half out, revealing a mere drywall screw holding it onto the boat. He knew this. Fuck him. I’m staying still.
I’m staying still because, like they said, I have to make it through twelve hours. Twelve hours and I’m done. They continue to talk, as I relax and take in the situation. I don’t need their help, I’ll do it.
I ignore them and turn my head to the right. The sun is a bright orange setting in a black sky which is barely propped above the pending turmoil of water. The wind is picking up and the storm will start at any moment.
You know the calm before the storm? Well I’d take any storm on if I could experience a sight like I see now, hanging off the side of a cruise ship, hanging for my life, onto a PPR yellow colored handle held on with a drywall screw.

Twelve hours and I’ll be finished. Here comes the waves, but the sun is still there. It will always be there.

Oh my prophetic soul.

I sound so stupid without spell check.
Oh and what I write. Oh and the clothes I wear. Oh and my tendency to like Woody Allen and cliche 80's songs. Oh and-

Hey Emily, I tried to email ya, but there's a no go for some reason.

It's too bad, it was an intensly witty and sardonic message that would have at least made you sit back and say, oh yeah . . . there ya go.

Well, I guess I'll resolve to run into one of these days which will inevitably happen. And that's a good thing.

Until then, more qoutes and cultural references like the Village Voice. Oh this town needs that boy. I like Artvoice, but it's no Village Voice. Then again, Buffalo is no New York. See, we have something to attain right?

Actually, we already have a New York, what else can we do with this town. Let's think . . . fo once.