The past two weeks were rough, but I'm emerging from the wilderness. It's time to get back to work! I'm putting another quick polish on my play before I send it out to theater competitions.
If somebody picks "Hammered," I would be very happy, but we must learn to accept rejection as the norm. I had one short play rejected last year. Maybe I should start notching them up somewhere in our apartment to keep track...
(Erika has just finished cutting Mark's hair. She grabs the broom to sweep. It breaks in half.)
Erika: Oh dammit. (examines it closer) Did you put all these little nicks on the broom?
Mark: Yes I did. Every time my play is rejected, I put a notch on there.
Erika: But you broke it. It's all cut up.
Mark: I'm training my expectations. Muting my inner want. Blunting desire. It's going quite well.
Erika: How can I sweep? You broke the broom.
Mark: I look at this pile of hair and I see an opportunity.
Erika: I see a mess... and you're going to clean it up.
Mark: No, look.
(Mark picks up patches of hair and sticks them to his head. They fall off onto his face and shoulders)
Mark: See? Denying false negation. Reuse. Regeneration. This is life, baby.
Erika: (packing bags) I'm going home to mother. (she exits)
Mark: Time for some microwave quiche. (opens fridge)