THIS BE THE VERSE

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


--Philip Larkin



That's probably going in the program for my new show.

The new script is... well, the first draft is done. I'm pleased only in the sense that I now have a basis, but it's far from ready, obviously. Far from I want it to be. I've got about three months to whip it into shape, give or take travelling to performances in Orlando and Seattle.

This is the single most difficult thing I've ever written, harder and more terrifying than even the largest college essay, but if I pull it off... well, it might well be a huge step for me as a monologist.

For now, I'm gonna curl up with a trashy legal thriller and then crash. I'm hoping to have an appointment tomorrow with a certain Judge.