The Boy and the Great Big

I backed up all of my files today (790, 334!) and in the process, uncovered this little diddly:

INTRO:
Lights up. The boy is in a pressed, starched shirt with a bowtie and his hair parted on the side. He is cute. He is speaking to the audience.

Boy: My friends don’t understand. They’re happy. No. They aren’t. And yet, there’s something about their unhappiness that feels safe. It’s something they have cultivated, polished, sharpened over the years. They wear their unhappiness like a mink. I’ve just today, just now at 8:54, realized that I’m unhappy. The best sensation I’ve had on my skin in the last year is my foaming face wash. (Two people push a sink onto the stage. He squirts wash into his hand and then lathers up). That’s the most alive I’ve felt: the hot water running onto me, and the foaming face wash going into my pores, taking the dirt and rinsing me clean. I can’t remember anything before that feeling. I was in love once I think. Her name was Candy. She worked at the corner store and smoked while stacking the cereal boxes. I used to go in every day to buy a new box of cereal. Boy, she’d ask. Yes? I’d say. How can you eat a box of cereal everyday? Aren’t you full? No, I’d say. I want more and more and more.

Lights down.

(Weird right?)