The following show contains mature themes and language that may not be appropriate for all
audiences. Can you keep in mind with this contest intended for mature audience's own
listener description is advice. Let's see what did happen at the diner? Okay?
So I start from the beginning. Okay, it's now five seventeen am.
I stand sconed in the bathroom, a silent observer to the show and
slow rhythmic ballet of the trouplets escaping the facet, each falling into the waiting
embrace of those relatively clean And I do mean relatively or dare I say moderately
pers animal sink. The room wears its tales of views and occupation with a
certain nonchalant does in give a fuck? Heathery crack and fade a tile a
testament to its history and lack of love. For lack of wetter words,
I'm detached myself from myself. The sink, a curious ensemble of porcelain and
metal, sits at the center of this humble space, a battlefield where water
wages is war against grime. As I fixate on the incessant tripping, a
sense of disarray envelops the scene, which like the invisible shout of a fatigue
that clings to my frame. However, the true spectacle lies in the realm
of the minuscule, the drain. It's a landscape of its own, a
chasm that has witnessed countless encounters with soapy sud, unruly hair, in the
untold disasters of a daily existence. Yet this innocuous hole in the porcelain facade
now resembles an oracle of sorts, a peep hole into the deepest recis of
some eldritch entity and its psyche. The Drain's abyss calls out for peculiar fascination.
It's depths, teasing the mind to weave tales of unfathomable horror or elusive
marvels. Peering into the mysterious darkness, one might envision a gateway to realms
beyond. To hear the faint whispers of lost echoes. It's almost as if
it offers a subtle hint of what's to come. In this silent communion with
the bathroom, mundane yet enigmatic components, time momentarily loses its grip, much
like I do with reality. At this point, I stand as a witness
to the harmonious rhythm of water meeting porcelain, in the uncanny convergence of chaos
and order, in a space as both intimate and detached as the sun's first
tentative fingers brush against the horizon, and I find myself immersed in contemplation.
My connection with the everyday mysteries deepens with each echoing trop Tomorrow marks a red
day off for me. Although my plans fell through, there is a laundry
list of tasks I conveniently procrastinate on and sharing a leisure day at home.
Perhaps I'll take a tackle on the cows in the garage. It's been on
the back burner since I first moved in three years back. Reflecting on how
things could have unfolded differently three years ago, I've come to embrace the pressing
moment. Why am I talking like this? Who talks like this? Anyway?
I'll make my way downstairs, and a surge of joy washes over me.
It's genuinely the first time since I've hired my nephew Dylan, or should
I say day. I'm trying to be respectful for the choice, but grammatically
is a goddamn night mare. I vividly recall the day that he told us
that would already becoming a day did have it on my birthday as we celebrated
at our usual I tie lay in the restaurant. My mother always cracked us
him stupid choke, saying, y'all all ready for her in the ocular experience
in the world of Southeastern Asian was in and we'd laugh, poking fun at
the locals or not having the colloquial idioms. As we were gadding in vedive
for to dwelve and to dessert. Dylan pulled me asign mean thoughtful enough.
She didn't. He didn't want day, didn't want to steal the spotlight on
my birthday. He asked if it was okay to use his ocation for the
announcement. I was like, sure, why not? What's the words that
could happen? It can't top the bombshell you dropped them them last time about
being a heat. Now since it was my birthday bash, I figured,
even if things went south, we're already eaten, so I wouldn't leave starving.
And if it all went downhill, well, I could have taken a
dessert home for a solo indulgence. Later when things cooled off. As fate
would have it, I found myself indulgent in my own birthday cake, solo
nestle, in the comfort of my own bed. To add an insult to
injury, Kay, or rather Susan, arrived fashionably late, while Dylan bore
no responsibility for the mishab I can't say their news. It was the trigger
of their eruption. Kevin stormed off in a fitter age, his voice echoing,
nothing ever goes my way. The correlation between these events remains hazy.
Gavin, despite his flaws, never struck me as prejudice sir. He's obstinate
and quick witted, but I begot doubtful. I distinctly recall perching in the
curve, waiting to settle the bill and the rich evil of the Longings,
engaged in conversation with Dylan. I'm not trying to be a dick or a
cunt, ur an asshole. What's a what's a gender neutral body part?
An elbow? That's right, I'm not trying to be an elbow. I
just don't don't know who I am anymore, and honestly I can't. I
can't, I cannot relate to anyone I see I understand, kiddo. Shit,
we'll go through this our entire lives. Gender dysphoria. Oh god,
no, no, not me. I don't know about others, but I
think there's so much pressure now on that specifically. I don't get why it's
on blast. To be honest, it should be, oh, I'm this
cool? Thanks? Can we the dessert here while it's still warm? You
know? That's so I should be the way. Why are they being elbows
about it? I think people are elbows no matter what. They are predisposed
to bend one way or another, and in the minute you try to band
them in another way, they either break or get real fucking sore about it.
Nice job sticking to the elbow analogy. Shit. Assholes can be forced
to adapt. Cunts will take the heat, and Dix will eventually give up
completely. And that's why you are you kid. No matter what I do,
mean what, and no matter we will always love you. Yeah,
I know. And things will fall where they may and they'll sort themselves out
eventually, fucking yeah, eventually or not at all. But by that time
there'll be some other bullshit in the horizon, so don't need to stress about
it. Yeah, I know, thanks Auntie, se plus C plus I
thought I was doing all right. I got barely a passing grade. What's
going on here? It's not a grade. You're always that little extra I
knee, you know what I mean? I am always a little extra.
I really miss that kid, and honestly I miss everyone. The whole cast,
the whole ordeal has left me completely bewildered, struggling to make sense of
it all. I'm fighting hard to avoid shutting down completely, trying to keep
myself together. And then, at that precise moment, the room's heavy air
was brushed aside by the entrance of another agent. Her demeanor was a blend
of authority and compassion, or unique valance that early intrigued me. As she
entered, she carried a chair that had been flung across the room earlier,
a small yet significant gesture of a reconciliation with the fluid motion. She settled
herself in the bake seit an unspoken apology hanging in the air. It was
then that I noticed her glass eye, an unexpected detail that held his own
story. I'm sure it was a striking feature that should have caught my attention
instantly. The minute she walked in, but in that moment it merely added
to her enigmatic aura in a world tainted by cosmic chaos. She had embraced
her imperfections with a bold and anapologetic attitude, opting for a unique and almost
naruto esque replacement. His new presence, agent d Wilson, emanated a sense
of warmth thing a sharp contrast starkily with his sterile surroundings. Her voice was
a bomb, and her words were sincere and carefully chosen. I do deeply
apologize, Misty. The treatment you have received so far there is truly truly
inexcusable, especially given the unimaginable trials you're faced. Our intention, I swear
to you, Our intention is to provide you with the highest level of comfort
the spite the current limitations. For brief moment I hesitated my mind, raising
to respond adequately, and then with a newfound attitude, perhaps the consequence of
surviving the unfathomable, I thought, why the fuck not? After witnessing apocalyptic
horrors of costing proportions, it fell almost trivial to ask for a decent cup
of coffee and a more forgiven chair, or the impending debriefing which might take
ours days, I don't know. As she rose to leave, she pivoted
to face me, meeting aging d Wilson's case. I made my request,
we're here for you, miss, and she assured me that she would arranged
it properly. We locked eyes. We're here for you, Misty, she
uttered, her voice carrying an air of reassurance. This is only the beginning,
a prolug, Catherine, to what's yet to unfold. This is only
the beginning, a prolog of what's yet to unfold. Our words lingered in
the air, cryptic and intriguing. I found myself slightly taken aback, Grappling
with her hidden implications and meanings, I managed to mustard a bewildered excuse me.
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pull Art Tonight's production of Excuse Us, a mystery drama with delightful undertones of
humor and Eldridge horror. What's produced by Rebecca Lakepool and Rodrigo Pool, written
and directed, and performed by Rodrigo Pool in association with R and R Side
Audio Theater. Music and sound effects by Epidemic Sound some other sound effects who
are recorded live on set, voice modulation by eleven Maps. If you're enjoying
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next time, this is Rodrigo Pool saying thank you very much for listening