(ANDREW RAYCRFOT is alone in the dressing room)
Christcakes I'm emo.
I can't say I'm all that surprised. Earlier I was reading my fanmail—3 today—and who wouldn't be depressed with letters like these:
“Dear King Asshat of Suckville, (I threw that one out right away)”
“Dear Andrew Raycroft, I'm writing this letter for my little sister. She says to tell you “ I love you Andrew Raycroft! You are the best goalie ever! You want to be my friend?” P.S.: my sister is blind and mentally handicapped. Go Sens!”
“Dear Mr. Raycroft, I am a career and guidance counselor at Christwagons Catholic High School. In my job, I evaluate people's abilities and recommend an appropriate job for them. Mr. Raycroft, have you ever considered joining a cult? They don't even have to pay taxes, you know. Even working on a hobby can improve a person. I suggest knitting (nooses) or jumping off bridges.”
Maybe they're right. Maybe I am just a useless husk of an imitation goalie. There's only one way I can possibly release all of this emotional tension (grabs razor blade, puts on Sarah McLachlan) Atta girl, Sarah...(singing as he cuts) In the arrrrrms offff an anngel, flyy awaaaaaayyyyyyyy fromm herrrreee (VESA TOSKALA enters, RAYCROFT tries to hide what he's doing and fails)
TOSKALA: What the hell are you doing? (Grabs RAYCROFT's hand) Down the Highway, NOT across the street. Idiot. (leaves)
RAYCROFT: may you fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind some comforrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt herrrrrrrrrree
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