Hi Therese. I'm depressed today. I'll tell you in blank verse.


Jonathan:	Lo, this day finds me sore in solace.
1st Courtier:	What mean you, my Lord?
Jonathan:				   What mean I? Ack!
		'Tis Monday, grunion, and pardon enough for any woes,
		For the days' past repast hath blighted all sense
		And delight in the dull business of living.  What mean I?
		Attend, sturgeon, and gaze upon my email
		Which holds withal a filled jereboam of complaint,
		A liqour unlike its giggly kin that does not carbonate
		The bloodstream, ay, passeth-by the fun and lands straightaway
		On headache.
Queen:				In what manner are these accurs�d litotes
		So that thou art afflicted hereby?
Jonathan:					In such manner following
		All the protocols of Hell and Las Vegas thereby
		So that I lean more to Not To Be than To Be.  
		Hold on.  I need to get the phone.
Queen:						Doodle-dee. 
		What is it that he said?  What is it that he had to get?
Gandalf:	The phone, my liege.
Queen:					Ah, it needs be a dessart of some kind,
		Our Jonathan will not be dissuaded from his candied cheeses.  Why,
		Laid out in his ditch and bound with a winding sheet,
		A breeze bearing distant blancmange could sweep him
		And he would stand erect and drool.  
1st Courtier:					     (Aside) 'Tis the only time he erects.
Gandalf:	The poor pygmy.
Queen:					My fool.
Jonathan:					I return.  I am back.  Did you mourn?
		I imagine not.  The grief that began wailing that fucked-up day I was born
		Hath suckled at my mother's breast in my stead, and that changeling now struts
		The battlements of my fortress�d chastity libelling me to the poor,
		The starving, the ugly, the fashion-oppressed.  
Queen:								How was your phone?
Jonathan:	Delicious.  With that victual I drank complaint,
		A curt aperatif.  Everyone hates me.
1st Courtier:	Not so.
Jonathan:		So.
1st Courtier:		     No.
Jonathan:			'Tis so so, on my oath!
		These emails I brandish here in my girlishly weak hand
		Attest to my treachery.
1st Courtier:				Fie!
Jonathan:	I am hated in San Francisco.  These dispatches proclaim
		I am banish�d.  And attend, tilapia,
		I am not welcome at the Republican Convention
		For the spice I had added to their desert.
		I can no longer return to Verona, the Forest of Arden, Venice,
		Whatever country tha' houses Twelfth Night, nay, none of those.
		I am friendless, I am exil�d
		Until, like piteous Seneca, I am summoned to my charge's condemnation.
		Pity me.  I shall live and die in free verse.
1st Courtier:						And what is their disposition
		Toward thee in Los Angeles?
Jonathan:					Wha?
Queen:		A good query.  Pritee, tell.
Jonathan:					I cannot.
Queen:		'Splain.
Jonathan:					I forgot.
Queen:		Try.
Jonathan:					My Lady,
		Thou knowest thy will rules me in all matters
		And in this matter, I know not thy will:
		Suffice that I live, so if ever thou dost require
		I wage war against Los Angeles, or extinguish a brush fire
		Simply think the thought, my Lady, and I shall thence go.
Queen:		Well said
		If not entirely sensible.  My Jonathan, tell:
		What is Los Angeles's disposition towards thee?
Jonathan:	I have no argument with that Prince.
Queen:		A trifle.  You shall.  I wonder more of the Princess.
Jonathan:	I know not.  
Queen:		She would protest she loves thee.
Jonathan:	An I would protest in like kind,
		But there is no scrying strong enough to read the mind
		That formulates the thought, nor the breath
		That forces it through the furnace of our heart, nor the lips
		That shape it to speech.  She loves me, aye;
		And I love her.  But this tells me naught of her disposition.
		I cannot answer thee, my Lady.  This is love,
		And love swayeth like a ship in storm, it moveth
		From man to man as a mendicant would beggar small change
		From passersby.  Ask me not her disposition, nor command me
		To simplify mine.  Bid me to wage war
		Against Los Angeles, and I shall bear my head aft
		And immediately tell the first person I see to war Los Angeles.
		This I swear.  But I cannot tell you the Princess's will.
Queen:		And can thee in thy wits and trickery
		In ten words or less descry
		If she has read thy entire ramble in thy email?
Jonathan:	I would vote nay.  This is why
		I am depressed, and sore in solace.
1st Courtier:	What mean you, my Lord?
Jonathan:				   What mean I? Ack!

Enter FORTINBRAS with the sound of gunfire.  Tableau vivant.