Here are some samples of my work:
SAMPLE 1
"I have an audition. *pees pants just a little bit*
It’s been months since I’ve done this in person. (What is another human being anyway?) I am embarrassingly excited to bear my soul for a stranger in the same room. More specifically, it is not so embarrassing that I am excited, but that I am this excited.
I find this theatre company — we’ll call them Fancy Name — through a popular self-submit network we’ll call Headache. The morning after submitting a standard, genuine cover letter via Headache to Fancy Name’s artistic director — we’ll call him Gus Zanzibar (because we can!)— I hear from him.
Gus writes that he’s finished auditions and callbacks, but he’s still seeing a few people from out of town and he likes what he can see of my work online. *concentrates on something cynical so as not to pee pants*"
from Someone Stuck a Pencil Up His Butt
SAMPLE 2
“You didn’t plan it. Like I said, “wake up one day” and there it is. It’s happened. A part of you is already on the floor. Filling the cracks and gaps in the floorboards. You simply couldn’t skin hair fabric posture it anymore. And it’s terrifying. I mean, messy, for one. Blood and guts and what’s that yellow goopy glop and were all of those things pieces before or were they connected to a whole? You simply can’t rearrange yourself.
It’s clear to you now; A part of you is dead. You drop to your knees and wail, body bits slipping through your knuckle creases, arranging the duvets for their deathbeds under your nails. It’s a sticky, saddening, business. Frustrating, really. And, naturally, frustration forms fists. Frankly, at first, your firsts are newborn fucks. Fumbling and stumbling and futzing and fluttering attempts to fight. Flying through the air without direction, desperate to land where the destruction began.
You try to resist. Maybe you can relax. Reset. Sure! Why not? You can clear your vision and pick up the pieces and watch a 3-minute instructional video on how to sew yourself back up. Oooh, I know. Yes, I’ve got it! You could begin again as a baby. Baby sweetness and baby softness and baby plushness and baby blues and baby bows and baby bubbles and baby’s eyes and baby cries and baby, my oh my, big baby sigh, baby, oh baby, wouldn’t it be nice to be a baby to have a baby ah, ok, is this why you have a baby because you want to be a baby not to have a baby but then you have to have a babysitter to watch the bleeping baby you had so you can come home and baby the bruises out of yourself until you forget the beatings?”
from An Unplanned Suicide