Christopher is lying in bed awake with his unibrow. Eerie and subdued electric-guitar-picking music plays. He gets up and goes to his laptop to write. He flips through his script, atrociously titled "You Bark I Bite," and throws it in the trash. He's like a man possessed as he takes all his disks and papers and throws them all in a garbage bag and goes out to the dumpster. In a wife-beater and boxers, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Christopher bids goodbye to his screenplay. What a downer. I'm going to make some Mood Mender tea now; I'm all depressed.