In school, I am obliged to write two [2] full-length screenplays, one as a workshop exercise and the other as my senior project. Beatrice had to do the same thing.
His workshop exercise was a dismal piece that only passed because he finished it. He came in well above par, it was seventy-seven pages. It was supposed to be between ninety-five and a hundred or so.
I just nudged mine over eighty pages, and still haven't resolved the main conflict. I use Beatrice's experiences as a bar, albeit a low one, so I consider this my first major success. Call it malevolent, or what you will, but if he's going to live vicariously through me, as he does from time to time, I have a right to be a little bitter toward him.
I laugh because I must put him through hell, but sometimes I feel justified in doing so. Somebody has to make his life interesting, and he can afford therapy if he needs it.
I like coffee. I like making coffee, smelling coffee, and drinking coffee. Not too keen on the physical rush, the jitters, but sometimes I embrace the feeling with a certain, unavoidable giddiness. Right now, induced states irritate me a bit, but I think that's because I spent the day with a numbing hangover. I'm in and out of phases, inconsistent, to be honest. In secret, I fear an irresponsible combination of caffeine and nicotine will one day literally explode my heart. So I'm also a little paranoid, even if I don't act like it.
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