Chapter 7
Page 58
I am writing a play. I am writing a play that is going to save the world. If it only saves three people, I will not be happy. If with this play the oil crisis is merely averted and our standard of living maintains itself at its current level, I will weep into my oatmeal. If this play does anything short of announcing the arrival of the next cock - I mean, messiah - I will shit into my oatmeal.
Who among us will be asked to lead the people out of bondage, only to say, God, I have never been a good talker. Ask someone else. Ask my brother instead of me. There is no way to accomplish what I feel I must accomplish with this play. There is no way in heaven or on earth! I am the wrong person to do it. Look at the shitty red hoodie I am sitting here in. Look at my dirty running shoes. I have such small breasts. God, shouldn't you call upon a woman with greatbig knockers, who the people will listen to? Why do you call on me, who doesn't have the cleavage to capture the world's attention? Ask my sister instead of me, whose big breasts are much more suited to doing your work.
May the Lord have mercy on me for I am a fucking idiot. But I live in a culture of fucking idiots. I cannot be saved if not everyone is saved. If everyone around me talks nothing but shit, how can I hold myself aloof? My fate is not separate from everyone else's fate. If one man or one woman can stand up and call themselfs saved, that means we all are. And I know I'm not, so no one is.
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