this fully human existential predicament

　

Angus Chitty took an old Underwood typewriter to Washington Square Park, sat down on a mountain cliff, and began typing:

The focus had shifted from liberation, fun, and excitement to how downtrodden and miserable everybody’s lives had become.

That’s when some film students from the local school of visual arts approached him and asked him if he wanted to be in their thesis film.

“What’s it about?” Angus said.

A tall, skinny kid with Jesus hair and an Iggy Pop tee shirt spoke.

“It’s about this scientist who invents this technology whereby you can pick and choose which brain cells you wanna kill off while you’re drinking or doing drugs… ‘cuz, ya know how like you lose a thousand brain cells every time you take a drink or smoke a joint, yet have absolutely no control whatsoever over which cells die? Well, this technology enables you to choose with pinpoint accuracy, man. Say, for instance, you wanna knock off high school algebra. You hook these little electrodes up to you before you start partying, and you program the computer to knock off, let’s say, high school algebra or that recent date with a tranny, whatever it is you wanna whack. That way, you get to hold on to the cells you really wanna keep, ya know?”

“I’ll do it,” Angus said.

Jesus hair nodded coolly, handed Angus his business card, and told him to call him.

“I’m ‘onna need you to shave your head and lose about fifteen pounds,” Jesus hair said.

Angus nodded. “What part am I playing?”

“Got a couple of parts in mind. One of ‘ems an ironic hardcore gay rapper. The other is an alcoholic school bus driver struggling with career-choice issues. I think you’d be perfect for both…”

“Thanks.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

The film students walked off into the sunset, leaving Angus Chitty to worry about how he would shed fifteen pounds in such a short amount of time.

Tearing the page from the typewriter, Angus neatly folded it into an airplane and flew it toward some pigeons that were snacking on an old sandwich.

Wow, dreams always come at such a high price, Angus thought, as though nobody had ever thought that thought before.

He loaded another blank page into the typewriter and typed:

I used to know what women thought: “This is the face people want.” I used to know what men thought: “I want to be somebody soon.” Now, all I know is this: that life is a more unusual problem for a man and a woman to have than I initially thought.