When you wake up and see this happening to you, it is best to force yourself back into unconsciousness.

Contessa Von Clitton had been in an induced coma for three days. It turned out her sudden burst of intelligence was not from reading 68 consecutive issues of “Entertainment Weekly” cover to cover, but from her brain growing at an alarming exponential rate dangerously close to shattering her cranium.

She was on the verge of consciousness, but first, she would finish dreaming. She was back in the ‘good’ old days, when jazz hands were jazz hands, and not today’s obligatory half-assed representation. It’s the difference between an icicle and water. She was in the prime of her popularity, an up and coming actress, surrounded by dear flapper friends, and they openly called her Cont laughing gaily, dancing, always dancing, and beatniks baring their soul to the rhythm of erratic bongos. This was her happy place. She wanted to stay here, instead…

Contessa snapped out of her coma. She awakened to a cluttered room, hooked up to all sorts of machinery. From her window, an orange sun sets over a factory exhaling thick exhaust through a smokestack. Also, in the room, her atrocious greedy agent, Herb Gross, her horrible amoral stepson, Broderick, and an old forgotten boyfriend who was just there to mooch some money. She conveniently slipped back into the shelter of her coma.