Disclaimer: I don't get "The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?" Maybe it was the production? Maybe seeing it in the round didn't help? I don't know. I just don't know!!! Let it go, all right? I'm not interested in your dissent.
It's Friday night and I'm glued to my computer. The Final Draft website says NOT to download their newest update, which hey, CRASHES your computer. They didn't say it outright, but I know it does on account of it constantly crashing. I got mad deductive reasoning. And yes, I've also got cat saliva on my hand. But that's not important to the story.
The fur on the cat's nose looks like pressed flour. Like when I'm making fried chicken and the buttermilk mixes with the flour and it makes your fingers chunky.
Tomorrow is a writing day.
I imagine there are people at this moment, dancing. There is a woman. She didn't arrive with anyone. She sips a novelty cocktail, swaying, bouncing, deftly parting the sea of body odor and bad cologne. She smiles sadly, then gladly, then finds herself pressed against strangers, riding the music. Without thought of action or consequence, she lends her body to the chaos. Her dress is flimsy cellophane rubbing her thighs raw. Or her rights thaw. There is light, beating against her legs, there are fingers brushing hair from her eyes, there are strong arms carrying her to the exit. She falls over her knees and vomits. Hot milk spills out her mouth into the dirt. She pants, rubs her mouth with the back of her hand and looks haggard at the stars.
Until next time.
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