1) The voice of Tommy Wiseau.

You could recognize from just one word of his accent-laden,

foreign, voice. First off, it does not sound normal—the voice sounds inverted, slimy, but in a
pleasant way. When he laughs, it seems like his boisterous guffaws are an exaggeration, but
they are not: he isn’t even acting.

2) My TV looks different now that Mark has left me, my whole apartment, too. In that park, my
mind wanders to: “Mark, why are you doing this to me. Mark, don’t leave me.” In a voice spread
thin like a spoonful of honey lifted out of the jar, until the orange goo slips down with gravity.
Sad. “Mark,” my voice is more pleading, it inclines up in a wounded-kitten. “Tommy,” Mark
shouts, throwing the frisbee beside his feet, “You know I can’t let you do this. You were never
meant to be a star.” Mark’s words cut like a burning blade into my pleasant honey.