Do You Ever Wish It Would Just Finally Be Over?

My dreams, like unseen hands, continue to reach out during the night and grab me. There is a particular one that won't let go, always involving an interview with Rolling Stone magazine. We sit in a chic coffee shop in SoHo during rush hour traffic, the colorful vibrations of the city bounce against walls, which are covered in MC Escher prints. Two anxious journalists sit across from me sipping chia-tea lattes and I'm doing my best to appear introspective while letting them know how lucky they are to be getting this interview.

MTV: What turns you on these days?
ME: Oh baby. Well, good lighting, Chad Michael Murray’s jaw line, wheat thins, vespas, good arm veins, the Strobe. Anything, like, involving vegetarianism. (after a thoughtful pause) Man.
(The reporters sit, looking confused, and I blow them both a kiss. They continue, slowly)
MTV: What keeps Michael W. Rice up at night? What makes you angry?
ME: Bad haircuts, sloppy rollerbladers, insufficient ATM funds, ringtones, long sideburns-
MTV: That’s not exactly what we had in mind Michael. We were thinking more along the lines of world poverty, nuclear proliferation, domestic terrorism in the form of natural disasters. Anything like that might be, well, more productive.
ME: (continue talking, voice trailing off to a whisper) lack of facebook messages, cheap hair gel, wheat thins without easy cheese-
MTV: (noticeably irritated) Mr. Rice. Please. Perhaps there are some international policies you feel are not quite-
ME: (waving hands in air, making kissing noises with mouth) Turn the recorder off. Give me some freakin’ space. (pointing at journalists) You two! Walk with me!

We step away from the gathering crowd and find the only empty table. They look worried but I smile and wipe the newly formed sweat from my forehead. I say quietly, “I want to talk about my diet, my cats diet, the newest fashion trends, my haircut in the late 90’s, my relationship with Megan Lavoie. It’s not that I don’t…” I realize I am clutching onto one of their arms and my knuckles are white. The fabric of his suit is so soft and comforting, and I hiss, “WHERE did you get this?” He mutters some chic shop off 5th Avenue and claims to understand my requests.

The next half hour goes by and the interview takes a turn for the better. I mention must generally get going; I need to return some video tapes and catch Oprah. They ask their final question.

“Do you ever wish it would just finally be over?”