I will not get very far with this attitude.

Host: The rain had just ended, leaving the city washed in silver and reflections. The streets glistened like forgotten dreams, and every neon sign shimmered across the puddled asphalt. A faint mist drifted in the air, wrapping the world in a strange half-light — part real, part memory.

Under a cracked awning outside an old theater, Jack sat slouched on a worn bench, his jacket damp, his gaze fixed somewhere distant — a man who had fought too many small battles with himself. Jeeny stood a few steps away, her umbrella folded, the rain still dripping from her hair, her eyes full of quiet concern.

Between them, a single sentence hung like a confession whispered to the night:
"I will not get very far with this attitude." — Nancy Cartwright

Jack: “You know what’s funny?” he said, his voice low, tired. “It’s not even the world that stops you half the time. It’s your own head — that constant voice saying you’re not good enough. Like an internal critic that never sleeps.”

Jeeny: “That’s not funny, Jack. That’s tragic. You’re not supposed to be your own enemy.”

Jack: “Oh, I’m not just my enemy, Jeeny. I’m my whole damn army. Doubt, fear, sarcasm, self-pity — they march in perfect formation.”

Jeeny: “And you think admitting that makes you honest?”

Jack: “It makes me real.”

Host: The wind brushed through the street, catching the loose posters that flapped against the wall behind them — remnants of old movies, faded faces of people who once believed in something. The light above them flickered — like a heartbeat, uncertain if it wanted to continue.

Jeeny: “Nancy Cartwright was right, you know. You won’t get far with that attitude. You keep mocking yourself before the world even has a chance to.”

Jack: “Better I do it first than let them do it for me.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strength, Jack. That’s defense. You call it realism, but it’s just fear dressed up as wit.”

Jack: “Fear’s useful. Keeps you from doing stupid things.”

Jeeny: “It also keeps you from doing anything.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes caught the faint glow of a passing car, and for a moment, they seemed to hold the light — a warm, human spark in a world made of shadows. Jack, though, stayed still, staring down at his boots, raindrops dripping from his hair, his hands clenched like he was holding onto something invisible but heavy.

Jack: “You talk like it’s easy. Like I can just wake up one morning and choose to be positive. People don’t work that way, Jeeny. You can’t just erase defeat with a pep talk.”

Jeeny: “No one said it was easy. But you can change the way you speak to yourself. Every word you say — every sarcastic little jab — it digs deeper into the same hole you’re trying to climb out of.”

Jack: “So what? I should just chant affirmations in the mirror until I believe them?”

Jeeny: “No. You start by shutting up the part of you that only knows how to insult you.”

Host: Her voice cut through the rain-soaked air, sharp but not unkind. The theater marquee above them blinked, its letters half-dead: Tomorrow Starts Today. Neither of them looked up, but somehow, both saw it.

Jack: “You don’t get it. Some people are built for hope. You — you look at the world and see possibilities. I look at it and see proof that I’ll never measure up.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing humility with hopelessness. They’re not the same.”

Jack: “No — humility’s when you know your limits. Hopelessness is when you finally believe them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re still here. Still talking. Still trying. That means something.”

Jack: “Or maybe it just means I haven’t figured out how to quit properly.”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible.”

Jack: “And predictable.”

Host: For a moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath — the quiet between lightning and thunder, between despair and its reflection. Jeeny sat down beside him, the bench creaking under the shared weight of silence.

Jeeny: “You know, Nancy Cartwright voiced Bart Simpson — a troublemaker, a rebel. But even she knew that attitude isn’t rebellion; it’s just resignation with better marketing. You think being cynical makes you untouchable, but it only makes you small.”

Jack: “You really think optimism fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it opens the door. Pessimism locks it from the inside.”

Jack: “So I’m supposed to pretend I’m someone else?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re supposed to believe that you can be someone else. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke in the air, delicate but impossible to ignore. A street musician began to play nearby — a faint, melancholic tune on an old guitar that seemed to weave into their conversation like a quiet heartbeat of the night.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I used to be different. I used to want things. I’d get up early, make plans, talk about the future. Then one day… I stopped believing in my own story.”

Jeeny: “And you decided to narrate the ending before the middle was even written.”

Jack: “Maybe I just saw the ending too clearly.”

Jeeny: “Then write a better one.”

Jack: “You make it sound like I can just rewrite my whole attitude overnight.”

Jeeny: “You can start with one sentence. One that doesn’t start with ‘I can’t.’”

Jack: “That’s not a sentence, that’s self-delusion.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s direction.”

Host: Her voice was quiet now — not fiery, not forceful, but certain. The kind of certainty that comes only from having fought your own wars and found small, invisible victories within them. The music nearby faded; only the rain dripping from the eaves remained.

Jack: “You ever doubt yourself, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I don’t let my doubts sit in the driver’s seat.”

Jack: “And if they grab the wheel?”

Jeeny: “Then I remind them who built the car.”

Host: Jack let out a slow, genuine laugh, one that startled even him — raw, unguarded, real. The sound carried into the empty street, mixing with the faint echo of water and night.

Jeeny smiled — small, knowing.

Jeeny: “You’re better than you think, Jack. You just don’t talk to yourself like someone worth believing in.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem — I’ve gotten too used to my own sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “Then retire it. Try honesty instead.”

Jack: “Honesty hurts.”

Jeeny: “So does staying stuck.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. A patch of sky broke open above them, revealing a single star — faint, fragile, but there. Jack leaned back, looking up, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe I won’t get far with this attitude.”

Jeeny: “Then change the attitude, not the destination.”

Jack: “And if I fail again?”

Jeeny: “Then fail forward.”

Host: The camera slowly pulled back, capturing the two figures beneath the soft glow of the old theater light, its broken marquee still flickering: Tomorrow Starts Today.

The reflection of that sign shimmered across the wet pavement, bending and reforming with every breeze, like the future itself — never certain, but always waiting for someone to take the first step toward it.

Jack exhaled, stood up, and without another word, walked toward the faint light of dawn.

And Jeeny watched — not with pride, but with quiet faith — knowing that sometimes the smallest change in attitude can be the beginning of an entirely different life.