My feet were killing me and I decided to soak them while I settled down to study the script. I smothered my face in a clay mask and filled the portable foot soaker with hot water. It was always another feat getting the water to the couch without sloshing it on the already mildew-stained carpet.

Without Brock around, I'd fallen into a pampering routine. I was still lonely and feeling a bit like a social outcast, but my skin was glowing and my feet were as soft as a baby's bottom.

I had just settled onto the couch with the script and a bag of red licorice whips, the only food easy to eat while wearing a clay mask, when my phone rang. It was Brock. Again.

It was almost laughable how little I had thought about him once I'd told him it was over. Apparently, I had let the relationship drag on just so I wouldn't be alone. And as I looked around at my somewhat disheveled apartment, I realized being alone had its perks. I hadn't spent even one hour of time watching a movie that I didn't want to watch, or sitting in a noisy sports bar where I didn't want to be, or at a party with Brock's annoying friends stuck in conversations that I didn't want to be part of.

The phone stopped ringing. No voicemail this time. I was relieved. Maybe he was finally giving up. I wasn't sure why he was still working at it when it was obvious the clawed woman was waiting for him in the shadows. Or maybe she'd told him to bug off too.

I placed my feet into the foot hot tub, a kick ass item I'd bought on sale at the pharmacy. It massaged the bottom of my feet. And the humming motor was quiet enough that I could still watch a movie without turning up the volume. The paper mache apartment building allowed any sound to travel freely between apartments and even through floors, something I learned quickly when my upstairs neighbor decided to buy sharp heeled shoes.

I relaxed back as my feet luxuriated in the hot water. Why the hell was I still wearing a bra? I resorted to the Houdini style bra removal, taking the bra off without removing my t-shirt or disturbing the clay mask caked on my face.

I stared at the script with distaste. It had been a long day at Bulk Mart. It had been free sample day in the bakery department, and the customers kept flowing through the doors like a river after rain. I had been on my feet all day, and I needed a little down time before I started practicing my lines.

I picked up a licorice rope and bit off a piece as I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. I was down to one content provider, the only one I could still afford. I flipped through the choices from front to back and realized I had seen all the movies I wanted to see for the month. I turned off the television and dropped the remote on the couch.

I picked up my phone, deciding just out of boredom, to do a little research on the Plaything company. After all, it didn't hurt to know whether or not the man across the way was a fabulously rich and successful businessman or just a run of the mill pervert. Although, there really wasn't anything run of the mill about the beefcake guy across the hallway. And now I had moved on from thinking of him as big and handsome to beefcake.

My fingers typed in Plaything, and an entire Wikipedia article came up about the company and its founders. My neighbor's nice looking face was smiling up at me from the page. So he wasn't just a beefcake. He was a rich beefcake. Why the heck was he living in my building? Maybe he was a cheapskate. Or maybe he lived a secret double life as a pervert. I tossed my phone, deciding I'd let my ridiculous imagination have free reign for long enough. I needed to study.

I ripped off one more bite of licorice and picked up the script. It was heavy. Wonderful Russell had marked off the scene I needed to study with two sticky notes.

If I could have had back all the time I'd spent studying lines of scripts that never came to anything I'd be back in the sixth grade. I knew the movie business took a lot of persistence, some talent and a whole bunch of luck, but I wasn't sure I had any of those qualities. Of course, I could give up on the dream and head back to my small hometown to work in the bank or the local food market. But that option sounded as inviting as sticking a flaming hot poker through my eye. I'd had a lot of disappointments so far, but I just wasn't ready to give up.

I took a deep breath and turned to the first sticky note. I read the first line. "God, Michael, why are you always so cruel?"