As the folly of my own existence plays out each and every scene in the theatres of my mind, I realize, the slow roil of my emotions beginning a rolling boil, that the seats in particular that I have been sold tickets to temporarily dwell in are firmly positioned behind a massive column of self-doubt.

Is this MY column to deal with? If so, that will be fine; I tend to column like I see 'em, so there will be no doubt as to the dab of indubitable debt's debate. The call is made, the words are yelled, the agreement is reached. The ushers come and, after a fine hip-hop number, they proceed to move the column INTO my seat! Oh, the humina-manity! After the fee of life lessons that I had to learn went to pay for the play of the day, I say there's no way that I shall stay, okay?

They listen not, as they have already lent their ears, along with their other friends, Romans and countrymen, to the performance currently concurrent to the curvaceous currency those curs collected. The show must go on, but were it I at that wicked helm, I should dare say it would be going off.

But it is I that are the eye, aye? This is a pronounced production of pontification to ponder upon, and please pardon the pernicious pun. To feel put upon by a petty pun is preposterous! Still, with myself at the helm, I try to continue on to the sash... or at least the breastplate. There is small hope of a big result, but one must forge on and forget none.

The actors who are meticulously metric in their meters make a mantra of methods matriculating amidst the mayhem of morality and mortality and mononuclei. Man, what manner of minute moment undermines the master of these mutton-headed minions?

Still, their fait is accompli; they move about the sullen stage, stretching the semantics to the straining point. Though their performances are full of vim and vigor, the actual viscous vitality in it is vastly vicarious; how could they ever know what it is truly like when they cannot relate? Or prolate? Or conlate, even?

OH DAMNABLE STAGE! Why dost thou torture me with visions of the life I live, yet refuse to allow me to live it upon my own terms of endearment? Haven't you seen that movie? Where is the yesterday that was promised to me last week? Where is my tomorrow stashed?

The answer was simple, of course - I was in the wrong theatre. Silly me.