I'm not trying to adumbrate anything of my drug use or dizzying cigarette intake. There is no hidden metaphor of life in that, or is that the story of my day. It's, really, just what it makes me feel trying to type words. Yes, sure... Maggie is on her feet, which is the good news. Personally, I feel as though I've been bludgeoned in the head and creative inspiration has been replaced with... an inability to form a sentence. Maggie and I are two different creatures now. There's no attachment. So I'll try to speak to you of this "Maggie" person. Maybe the disassociation is good for arrogating suppositions that don't belong to "my" life.

So, yes. As you might have gathered in your piebald association and reading abilities; my name is Maggie. I play my character, Thomas Wesley, as a fatuous and tetchy drunk, but underneath, is that really deep and caring... blah blah blah. You get it. I've also played a lotttt of characters before. There's no point naming them all, some of them I'm a little ashamed of. I cup my hands in the shower, fill them up with water and then let it go. I would pick orange play-doh over pink-play doh in substitiute for red play-doh anyday. That doesn't make sense unless you understand my obsession with making play-doh meals inside my room so I can start a conversation. "Hey, Whoever. Guess what? I'm making beef tenderloin with black russian bread and corn on the cob." One thing I require is control of my life. And I've lived without it for so long, I can't say how I will behave this week or the week after.