In a previous life, I was a b-movie actor from the turn of the century. Bulimic. Moderate good looks. Big dope fiend. An abused abuser with a penchant for girls as thin as those pink wafer snacks you get at parties. I ate a whole pack of them once at Christmas and was sick in my sleep. Was it me, though, or the b-movie actor? Has anything in my life really been me, or just an elaborate performance by someone trying to act human? I deplore poor performances, which is probably why I hate myself so much. I always forget my lines, and never hit the right cues. I miss the signs as if I were blind. Those pink biscuits—I wonder if they still make them? So much from my childhood has slipped into the realm of oblivion. There’s little left of the time that was once mine. Most of the stores I shopped at have closed. Many of the landmarks etched into my brain down the streets in which I was raised, now razed to kingdom come. I am a leftover of some bygone age. An actor without a stage. I’m not even that old, but the stories I have to tell are as ancient as the bricks that crumble beneath my aching, wandering feet. I have shoes that don’t fit. They let the water in when it rains. Everything is such a drag.