The Bloody Doors Off

What the fuck am I even doing here?

Graphic designer, playwright, occasional asshole

It’s Tuesday. (Not the improv game.)

I thought today was Wednesday.

Steeled myself all day for what tomorrow would bring.

And now realizing I have yet another 24 hours to wait.

It’s like the unexpected voicemail from your doctor.

They don’t say anything in the message.

Aside from asking you to call back.

Every disaster scenario plays across the back of your eyes.

And after three days of trying to reach her.

She tells you your blood pressure is a little high.

So cut out the salt.

It’ll be fine.

It’ll be.

Fine.