My Way, Or the Hemingway

A PRESS CONFERENCE IN AN APARTMENT. A PODIUM AND MICROPHONE. VERY PROFESSIONAL, YET UTTERLY NOT. A CROWD OF JOURNALISTS, “JOURNALISTS”, AND OTHER ASSORTED PASSERSBY GATHER.

NARRATOR: (VOICE-OVER) In our previous misconceived attempt at humor, Steve, local recluse and man without money, finally managed to leave his apartment. He then immediately cocked it all up by choosing to talk to people. We now return to his apartment for an important-to-him press conference.

STEVE ENTERS, SPEAKS. HOW UNFORTUNATE FOR US. 

STEVE: Hello. I think we all know why we’re here.

RORY: (RAISES HAND) I don’t.

STEVE: Someone remove this man.

RORY: What did I do?

RORY IS BEATEN, DRAGGED OUT.

STEVE: Right. Look. We can stand here all day, blaming my wife for what’s transpired. And while I certainly won’t stop you all from doing just that, I also think it best we move on from her misplaced faith in my ability to, uh… well, to do much of anything, really.

Was this a mistake? Probably. But I’ve made mistakes before. And I’d much rather make mistakes than never make anything at all.

That said, I can only promise you that I will only continue to defecate into the void, creatively speaking. I will not be stopped. I cannot be stopped. Not until I’ve grown bored with whatever it is I’m doing and move on to something else entirely, which is what I plan on doing right. Thank you.

STEVE EXITS.