I didn’t advance to the Page Awards Semi-finals. This is the same screenplay that was a Page Awards Semi-finalist last year.

I don’t understand this kind of thing, and I don’t feel snappy-brained enough at the moment to dig deeper. Being sick for a week certainty dulls down a person’s analytical abilities.  Makes disappointment less disappointing too.

For the moment…. Crushed? Absolutely. Somewhere on the sliding scale between Coarsely Ground and Finely Pulverized. Don’t worry, the extreme end on the Crushinator’s (Futurama references cheer me up) Crush-O-Meter is Liquifacation, and that requires Super Fund like cleanup, involving unicorns, rainbows, and enough chocolate to cause a minor shortage crisis among the obscure Godiva tribe of East Upper West Chocophyladelphia. I’m nowhere near that. I wouldn’t mind some Godiva Salted Caramel Milk Chocolate right about now, though…salted caramel toffee…mmmm…oops, mixing my Matt Groeningisms. Time to go drink some juice and hope I don’t have a fever dream about the Crushinator and Homer Simpson.

And this, my friends, is why I try not to write fiction when I am sick. It’s no time to attempt to introduce a new sub, sub, sub genre: Slipstream Mashup Tangential Word Black Hole.

Goodnight.

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