I am an ancient leathery tome hidden behind a trap door at the bottom of a musty, cobwebbed dungeon. A piercing light dances across my aged face. I wince groggily, like a hungover owl awaking from a quarter century of blissful unperturbness, except, you know, I’m a book doing that. GODDAMMIT. It’s Nicolas Fucking Cage and his poor, overworked flashlight. “Get out of here, Nicolas Cage,” I say. But he does not heed my words, for I am just a book and Nick Cage doesn’t read, he acts. LIGHT! FUCK! GET OUT OF MY EYES! Nick Cage will not put his flashlight away. It is pointed right at me. I am doomed. He approaches and slowly runs his skeletal wizard fingers down my shuddering spine. He picks me up and his stupid face consumes my book-vision. It is contorted into a frightening expression that he feels best represents a fascinated cryptologist. His acting, like his breath, is stinky. He arches back as if in slow motion, and I brace myself for what I know is coming. “You really don’t have to do this, Nick.” Nope, he does. His fetid breath blows over me like a hurricane of garbage, blowing 24 years of accumulated dust every which way. And then, just like that, the horrible nightmare is over, because I am dead. “Death by old age and stinky acting” reads my obituary, if obituaries were interesting enough to include cause of death. And yet, Nightmare Nick carries on, living, breathing, acting. Be careful out there, everyone.
In unrelated news, it’s my birthday today and I am an old book of a man.