You are only 32 years old.

Looking in the mirror you see that smile that screams: James Dean. The charm Peter Parker vied for. The body Isolde had fallen for.

The lingering traces of drug addled days on the Pineapple Express in your eyes, and the taste of Harvey Milk on your lips.

You could use a visit to the General Hospital because damn your arm hurts. Maybe it’s the poetry you’ve been writing. The lines you’ve been Howling in your mind.

The plane lands and suddenly you’re awake with a jolt. 2 seconds couldn’t have passed since you closed your eyes but the clock says you’ve been asleep for 127 hours.

Guess it’s time to host the Oscars.