Fold Your Hands Child, You Look Like A Peasant

A kitchen

A table with chairs, a counter in the back ground.

Mom is sitting at the table.

A Enters stage right dressed in pjs.

A: Morning mom.

M: Theses no milk.

A: Crap. Is there any bread?

M: Yeah on the counter. What time did you get back at last night?

A: Twelve, I was home before you.

M: Oh yeah.

A: Bit too much to drink?

M: It was Lynda’s birthday, and yes. I feel horrible this morning.

W enters stage left dressed in what she was wearing the night before

W: Morning mom. (And goes to quickly exit stage right)

M: Where was she?

A: Aarons I’ll bet.

M: I was wondering where she was getting off to all the time.

A: Who or where.

I’ve lost my mind. I’m writing a fucking sitcom.

I’ve also given myself a tattoo. I was waving a pen around when I decided it might be a smart idea to stab myself as hard as I could in the middle of my palm. The result is my tattoo. It is small, only a single black dot, but I will be surprised if it ever goes away. Maybe the ink will break down and be washed all over my body to clump in pieces all over the place catalyzing the creation of cancer cells, but it is showing no sign of fading.

I’ll be back in toon town Wednesday night, and I’ll be staying until Sunday. Call ahead of time for bookings, but reservations are privy to preemption, first come first service preferred.

Bonkers

Sean/Uehen