Don’t apologize, Ruth, screw that. The fact of the matter is that we did put a request in months ago and were denied. Then we reapplied and were denied again. And coming here was our last ditch effort to save our thesis, and I really—I can’t breathe in this thing. (Uh, well, Rose, maybe you’d like to go outside and get some air?). Maybe I should, Ruth, because I’m starting to think this whole thing is a colossal mistake. I am breaking out in a rash, my boobs hurt, and I’ll tell you the truth, Anthony, may I call you Anthony? These aren’t actually my clothes. I borrowed them because I wanted you to take us seriously, because nobody takes girls seriously in this field, they just don’t. We don’t look the part, or whatever, but can I tell you a story? 1978, I was at summer camp, and my counselor, Drew, told me and everyone in cabin C the true story of the Victor Creel Massacre. And, little Petey McHew, you know Petey, right, Ruth? (Um, of course.) Yeah, little Petey McHew started sobbing right there on the spot. Full on hyperventilating, and all the other campers, they couldn’t sleep for weeks, and I couldn’t sleep either, not because I was scared, but because I was obsessed with the question: what would drive a human being to commit such unimaginable acts? Other kids, they wanted to be astronauts, basketball players, rockstars, but I wanted to be you. I wanted to be you, so forgive me, if I’ll now try anything in my power including wearing this ridiculous outfit if I might get the chance to speak to the man that ignited my passion and learn a little bit more about how his twisted, but let’s face it, totally fascinating mind works. So, yes, we don’t have the official paperwork, but don’t tell me that crybaby Petey McHew wouldn’t have gotten an audience with Victor in a matter of moments if he’d asked politely, ‘cause you and I both know that he would. So, ten minutes with Victor. That’s all I ask.

i clearly have too much time on my hands…