Mum freaked when she found out I went into town; I had bought a coffee and she saw the cup in the trash. She thinks I need to hide out here like a monk or something. “Rest, Michael,” she says. “Decompress.”
And I can’t tell her we’re here because of her—because she needs to decompress.
Okay. I am decompressing. Whatever the hell that is. I tried out “Luke” as a first name yesterday. I like it. Nobody wants anything out of Luke. He can do what he wants.
I’m supposed to be reading lines for Lamplighter and getting ready for Letterman and working on my abs. Papa’s really unhappy about my abs. Kenny told him I’m getting flabby. Like hell! I’m benching 250 pounds. I’d like to see either of them bench half that.
I have seven scripts sitting here that I’m supposed to read. Kenny has this outer space thing he’s dying for me to take, but it’ll force me to be two places at once if Lamplighter goes into sequels. And I can’t see doing the outer space thing. Reminds me of Laser Boy. He says to think like this is all temporary and could go away next week, so I have to work harder. Yeah, I know, and all I do is work. He’s afraid Whitley’s more popular than me. Do I care?
I’m not reading lines and I’m not working out and there’s nothing to “get ready” for Letterman. I’m reading Great Expectations. Next I’m going to read Crime and Punishment followed by Macbeth. I might even read the Bible. I am so sick of scripts.