June 2nd, 2002 - 2:30 p.m.

Ow. An internal protest, and plans.

The lungs are protesting. Organs are such a bother. �No more!� they holler. If they could craft the signage common to demonstrations, I am sure they would have done so. But this is most entertaining, I can, for the first time, feel the entirety of my lungs under my ribcage. Prickled by tender pain, pickled by smoke. And if the duo could grow legs, I am certain that given no time at all, they would stomp up the oesophagus, connective tissues snapping, and walk off in a huff, complaining to each other how very impossible I am.

The plan is to die of lung cancer like my step grandpapa. In the hospital, visitors are only allowed to bring cactuses and large tropical trees with excessive foliage. The funeral plans are being elaborated. One person has promised to show up drunk, sprouting crass obscenities. Another to show up as a cripple, and as the casket is being lowered, to fall on top of it, and claim �My legs are on fire!� S. will play an angry German man, smoking cigars the entire time, ashing onto the funeral home carpet, and loudly complaining that there is no beer. I still need a French mime, and a woman with too much makeup wailing. I am entertaining auditions for those positions, as well as any others.

N.

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