"Now is that gratitude? Or is it really love?"

Cozy's willingness to kiss me on the nose when it's raw and red and cracked and bleeding makes me want to cry.

Never heard him lock the door.

My clothes seemed so garish and tacky, lying on the floor of his bedroom.
Everything was so sparse and white, so painfully, blindingly spartan; and there my clothes lay, unceremoniously crumpled, screaming in cobalt and ebony.
I could see them over the edge of the bed, peeking out from the broad curve of his shoulder. He shifted, and suddenly they were gone, replaced with smooth, lightly tanned sinew that flexed ever-so-slightly as he adjusted himself to grab my wrists, adjusted himself so as to pin me down.
Music thumped from the living room area, filtered through the apartment walls. Rage Against the Machine; the bane of my existence. His breath, hot in the crook of my neck, came in time with the bass; he told me he loved me, called me "baby," smiled that smug-fuck grin as he bit my neck in all the wrong places. His nails were well-manicured, almost offensively clean, contrasted with what we were doing. He spoke to me as one would an uncomfortable minor appearing in their first dingy, dimly-lit 70s porno. I pictured it in my mind: the wood-paneled walls, the flat, grimy bed, the shaggy, most-likely bearded middle-aged man. Something in me tightened, screamed that I was better than that, than this 21-year-old army asshole who didn't understand that "no cock" meant "no cock" unless you slapped him across the face.

Nothing good ever comes out of a bottle.

Thom Yorke overdosed on Seroquel and fell through a car window.
His body was pumped full of chemicals and his scalp was stapled six? ten? times.
He laughed in the faces of the doctors who saved his life.
When a girl asked him why he hadn't answered any of her texts, his only response was, "I tried to kill myself last night."
He refused to answer when she called him a minute later.

These are our players, this is our play.

The Leads:
1. Thrust: myself. Goofy, misanthropic, small. Prone to bouts of romanticism, pop culture references, and grammatical wrath.
2. Cozy: the girlfriend. Talented, hilarious, endearingly nerdy. Sings opera, talks in funny accents; supposedly ill-tempered.
3. Thom Yorke: ex-boyfriend and best friend. Drug addled, disenchanted, older than his age. Insanely creative, lacks hope.
4. Ladybug: amazonian Jewfriend. Confused, strong, open; talks about anything and everything. Loves potatoes and loaf.
5. Matthew Broderick: the brother. Successful accountant; failure with relationships. Lonely, insanely intelligent, overworked.
6. The Boo: softspoken designated heterosexual. Incredibly white upper-middle class. Needs love, focuses on grades.
7. Canned Vegetables: hyper-emotional floormate with dedicated boyfriend of three years. Loving, good-natured; hates conflict.

Ensemble:
1. Egg: other best friend. Whimsical, jaded; annoying welfare reliant boyfriend. Prone to sporadic depression and binge-drinking.
2. Catullus: token dyke. Snarky, repressed, overexerted. Has equally repressed girlfriend. Voice of reason; level headed.
3. Unity Poster: collective of former high school newspaper staff friends. Loud, witty, eclectic; multiracial single entity.
4. Mama: high school Journalism teacher. Crying shoulder, mother-away-from-biological-mother. Classy, dry humor. Cultured.
5. Dirty Hippy: tenth-grade love interest. Arty, adventurous, dependent; born three decades too late. Smart, naive.
6. The Seamstress: long-time friend turned enemy turned friend again. Open-minded, loving, misunderstood. Cares too much.

Understudies:
1. Myra: social climber and chameleon. Lives in LA with border-hopping boyfriend. Creative, conniving, disconnected.
2. Cowboy Bebop: narc. Pseudo-intelligent, faux-cultured. Mommy issues. Compensates for idiocy via physical might.
3. The Starving Artist: only boy I have ever loved; sensitive, unmotivated. Prone to bad luck and brilliantly phrased lyrics.