You make your way up, laying clumsily on the floor. You see an actress dressed in ‘60s clothing, she's cleaning a small podium in the middle of the stage. You start to narrate her life in a cool, Brecht-like song.
It actually goes pretty well. Which is surprising.
You use your handful of dirt as confetti, and you hear the laughter and know that what you are doing is: good. You’re pleased and proud. Until the Director shouts.

– Okay stop! Everybody, stop! – and steps to you – darling this was gorgeous there’s only one wee thing. I believe you should be wearing this!
And he holds up a super clingy pink dress.

– No way – you say –, it doesn’t make any sense! She – you point at the woman in the ‘60s outfit – is the one who is supposed to be the sexy one! Why can’t I just stay like I am? This… genderless thing, an outsider, a narrator.

– Yeees. But no. Wear this, dearest!

You have had enough of this nonsense. You bare your teeth and growl:
– Over my dead body – and you start to run before the dressers can catch hold of you. Without having any better ideas, you start to climb up the side curtain and manage to reach the top and the bars of the hoist system above the stage. Yoou are still holding onto the curtain. The dressers and the director are standing at the bottom of the curtain and they start swinging it.3 You try to climb further but you lose your balance and fall to the ground. Your…well, everything hurts a bit, but besides that youre fine. 

– You wear that pink shit, boy. – You stand up on your crushed legs and walk out from the stage with dignity. Through the rows of the audience, you make your outro. Weird. You thought this was a rehearsal but there are people are sitting in the chairs. They seem to be here against their will… Whatever, this is somebody else’s business – you leave the auditorium through the door.