And So, It Comes to This

STEVIE: I am a professional recluse.


STEVIE: I’m working on a new one right now, actually. I haven’t settled on a title, but I am thinking of calling it, “Does Anybody Else Feel Like Crying All the Time?”


STEVIE: If I had to describe it in just one word, it would be, “an introspective, single-act dramedy seeking to uncover the soul-wrenching, fruity, yet creamy center of the eternal question: who are you, and how did you get in here?” (BEAT) Or whatever one word means that.


STEVIE: Well… I wanted to challenge myself. See what I could really do, ya know? Could I come up with a minute – just one minute – of original material every night… and waste it. Every second.

Pine Cones

STEVIE: Y’ever wonder about the first person to die only for some asshole to come along, look down – or maybe up, I don’t know – wasn’t there. But they look at what’s left of the poor bastard, shake their head, (HALF-HEARTED) “Shame,” (“NORMAL” VOICE) and then continue on with their day as if they hadn’t seen a dead body?

I wonder what they must’ve seen.

Not the dead guy, of course, though I am curious about what he saw too. And I’m sure I’ll see something similar soon enough.

But what about the other guy? What did he see?

Was the corpse still warm?

How many pieces were there, and did they find it all before a bear made off with some?

Did it happen in front of them? Or maybe they came in mid-scene – no context, just a corpse in a cave with too many pine cones up his ass.

Nice Night

STEVIE: The most utterly depressing thought I can manage at the moment is… in knowing all this suffering is, quite literally, pointless. All of it. The [insert current hot topic], the [insert recent hot news story], [insert worthless, yet utterly stupid whatever] – all pointless tragedies of equal measure, sure.

And all in the face of certain death? And following that, likely cosmic heat death? Bit of a hat-on-hat, if you ask me.

I mean, how much deader can it get?

Makes you question the whole divine plan thing. Just a little.

What’s divine about anyone who can’t sort out a decent ending to their work, huh? That’s just sloppy craftsmanship. No love or passion at all. It’s lazy.

And you can’t blame humanity for having to fill in all the blanks. We’re curious things.

I suppose that’s why we always have to touch the fire or attempt a [insert the latest sensitive cockup of discussion] before you realize you’ve made a big oopsie. Or watch someone else try first. See how it goes.

“Oh, [latest sensitive cockup of discussion]? Yeah. Turns out it burns something nasty. Not too bad though – leaves you a bit raw for a day or two. Unless you’ve record it like some flaccid halfwit.”

Anyway. I finally got around to watching [insert literally any film with actor Bill Hader]. I think it disappointed me some.

Bill Hader’s a dream, though.

Morning Walks

STEVIE: There was this woman, once. She was a sweetheart, with hair, arms, two-eyes, some of her teeth, and mostly all the other giblets and suchhaveyou.

We didn’t have long together, just a few sciatic-pinching minutes of sloppy, lustless, wholly shameful sexual innuendo-ing.

The next morning, I found myself waking up in a ditch along the northbound lane of Pacific Coast Highway.

Still the best parent-teacher conference I’ve ever accidentally attended.