Nobody but veteran Whimper reporter Inga Mucosa writes more interesting articles about herself. And nobody conducts more introspective interviews. Why not combine the two, and save space?
We did. Because Inga is a person of many sides, she decided to employ a systematic "question-and-answer" method as a way of drawing those many complex, often contrasting sides to the surface. Mission accomplished: she asked her questions with verve, a total lack of verve, clarity, an interesting complete absence of clarity, and certain other qualities that our medical team had trouble identifying. She answered her questions somewhat differently, though always with that imperceptible Inga Mucosa wit in evidence.
Inga sat down with herself at their apartment last Thursday. The recording of her conversation was transcribed by a professional stenographer and any typographical errors are strictly the result of poor pronounciation.

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Inga: Is it on?

Inga: I don't know, the little light --

Inga: Testing. 1, 2 --

Inga: Testing testing. I don't think it's on.

Inga: I don't think it's on. (Curls up into fetal ball)

Inga: (Fumbling with tape recorder) Hmm. Fuck bitch shit. (Sings) Shine brightly, little light, shine --

Inga: Society is so into technology and thinks wow my life is so, you know, easier but they're not. Electrons going through the thing where do they think it comes from, the air? No. The brain is mainly electrical plus some tissue, and yet they don't even notice that the radio and the lamp only works if you're there to turn it on. Oh, right, "it's just a coincidence." Jesus! Like when --

Inga: (Muttering) Please, god. (Fumbling noises; perhaps she is still fumbling with the tape-recorder) Please, dear god. Just make her shut up. Just --

(Click, silence, fumbling noises)

Inga: -- your thoughts on the evils of electricity unless you can keep yourself from unplugging it. (Points at plug)

Inga: (Still speaking) -- how, like, a hair dryer won't work when it's under water. Duh! They just don't think.

Inga: Excellent. (Fumbles through notes) What question was that the answer to?

Inga: I don't think it's on.

Inga: Hmm ... the round dealies are moving and --

Inga: Means nothing.

Inga: Okay. (Considers) Nothing. Emptiness. Darkness. Death.

Inga: (Writing) Mm-hmm. Good. Do you have angst?

Inga: I ... um, no. Sorry. But there's a 7-11 just a block away.

Inga: My philosophy used to be that it was all, like, no point to it. Pointless. It's all going to end anyway. In a ther-mo-nu-cu-lar blast. (makes blast noise)

Inga: Thermonuclear.

Inga: So what was the use? Anyway, that's what I used to think. Then, with the Cold War over, it was like, "Thank you, Reagan. Thank you. You just fucked my philosophy right in the ass." Because it's pointless now.

Inga: Wow. Wow. You should be a poet. I have no idea what you just said.

Inga: Cool.

Inga: Men. That is so typical. You know, the Pope - if he were allowed to be, by his faith - would be a rapist.

Inga: I read that somewhere.

Inga: I wish I was in a band because then that would be my band name. Bad Pope.

Inga: (Brightly) I hate my Dad.

Inga: Excellent.

Inga: Well, you know. Not my "real" Dad. I mean --

Inga: Your stepdad.

Inga: A friend of my Dad.

Inga: I'm a victim too.

Inga: Excellent.

Inga: Not of a tragedy or anything bad or anything.

Inga: (Fumbling with notes) Inga what is your philosophy about life and shit.

Inga: Oh wow. Weird man. Wow. That is so fucking weird.

Inga: (Furiously crosses out question) Yeah it is.

Inga: Because I was just thinking about this the other, wow, the other day, philosophy of life, what is my philosophy of life, and it, you know, I thought how every time I think about it, I mean, I realize that I'm just a teen and have not formed an opinion. How about you?

Inga: (Wasn't listening) What?

Inga: What?

Inga: I said, how about you?

Inga: Me? (Looks at notes, attempts to rewrite question)

Inga: Inga, it's time for your medicine.

(Awkward silence. Fidgeting noises. Also, in the distance a small, agitated dog can be heard)

Inga: Well. Gotta go.

Inga: Right. Well, thanks. (Hug)

Inga: Look ... I, uh, I promise not to use the part where you, you know, you said you had sex with Reagan. (Giggles) I'm sorry! Man!

Inga: You're the one who said it.

Inga: (Irritated) That doesn't make it any less embarrassing. Inga! Duh! I'm sorry!

Inga: That's it. That's it. I'm outa here. Are you on fucking drugs or something?

Inga: What? (Looks through notes) How ... how the hell would I know if I'm on drugs?

Part 1 of a 12-part series

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