It's little things. Like the girl at the gas station on the cell phone making gestures. She was making a show of backing up and I thought she was leaving but it turns out she was really talking to her friend and maneuvering her death machine and I got in the way. I would have apologized -- there's no reason for us all to feel rotten -- but she never paused from shrieking into her palm and throwing nasty looks. Hey, I know it says PSYCHIC on my forehead, but you can't believe everything you read.
Is it hormones? Is it caffeine? Is it my play? Is the psychotic character I'm writing taking over? Or do I just need a full night's sleep? Everywhere I go, there's too many people and they all want things. They want to stand where I'm standing. They want to get in front of my car and slow down. They want to tell me what I'm doing wrong. And I'm not in any kind of mood to do anything but set my mouth in a line and clench my teeth, reminding myself that people are dying, children are crying, concentrate... Maybe tomorrow, if you're good, you'll get to see the dunes. And a waterfall. And Best Buy. And no one gets anything from you that you're not prepared to give. If you're good, that is...
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