Let's Go to Prison

In the movie version of this, I, the broke and recently betrayed by a snake-ass magazine publisher in Harlem, have hit rock bottom and am forced to take a job in a troubled school. A student of both the outer world and the streets, I would take a group of black and Latina kids and show them that it could all be so much more. The most unexpected one of them would find true talent in whichever art of science I was slinging. The tag line would be: One writer can make a difference.

But in the real world I had to enter a classroom and give six little girls a reality check speech which including my bragging about the fact that I'll be sending behavior reports to their parents with notes on everything they say or do at the end of each week, with those sheets having to be returned to me signed the following Monday. I explained that while they would no longer be doing a production of their own work, that they'd have daily writing exercises that I would pen for them in a tame but urban enough serious of story lines meant to examine own senses of morals and their perception of the world around me. They played tough for half the period but they did the assignment as told. Even their tantrums and outburst were buzz flies to the orchestra of my declaration. 15 more sessions of these kinds of mind games and sixth grade bullshit and I turn in my badge. I can't wait.

I don't know what I'm going to do after this. There's the dream that I carry with me everyday of my cell ringing and someone on the other end telling me that they want to option my script or make my pilot or adapt something I did. It has what's kept me afloat out here in the furthest rings of Saturn. But I'm once again wondering if it's the clearest manifestation of me making my own reality, or is it a pipe dream no different than that of any other soul in a North Hollywood coffee shop? I'm trying to think of a Plan B, a secondary existence created to shield me from the poverty line it feels like I'm hovering above like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. But everything I consider I quickly admit is something that eventually unnerve me. So what do I do? What do I do? Out.