I'm a writer. I spend my days at my computer with no one to
disturb me but the occasional cat. Silence reigns. The Husband steers
clear. Once he broke his hand playing tennis and didn't say a word until he
was sure I had finished writing for the day.

I don't want to talk. I don't answer the phone. I steer away from Facebook.
I concentrate. Magic happens. Plays are born.

But here at the Fringe it's: "Human entanglements through the eyes of a
cat. Wonderful comedy-drama. At 1:55. Would you like a flyer?" Wash, rinse,
repeat ad infinitum - with enthusiasm damnit. After flyering non-stop for
four hours today, my tongue started sticking to the roof of my mouth. After
another hour I started rolling my R's (did I mention I'm from New York?).
When your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and you roll your R's,
spit shoots out of the corners of your mouth like a water pistol. People
started crossing the street to get away from me. 

I think there's a limit to the number of times you can say a word. Like the
number of fertile eggs a woman has or the number of sperms a man has. You
might run dry. My supply of "cat," "eyes" and entanglements" are
dangerously low. Would you like a flyer? It's a play about human spaghetti
through the nostrils of a pigeon.


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