I’ve started doing this thing where I have imaginary conversations with dead playwrights. I blame the book my Mother recommended; it’s full of this kinda stuff. So on a regular basis Joe Orton, Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde and I have impromptu meetings – while I’m doing the dishes, smoking a cigarette, during a commercial break. You’d think in the company of such esteemed writers the conversation would naturally be high brow but it almost inevitably turns to smut (none of them, in my opinion, had nearly enough sex while they were alive) with Joe practically dry humping the upholstery (which Oscar says is vulgar and juvenile but I think he really quite enjoys). Only Thomas is silent for the most part but will always make sure to stay behind and offer some advice about sentence structure or read a poem; usually a thinly disguised ode to a beautiful and unobtainable young man, or perhaps, his Mother.