Play envy is real. It’s exactly like penis envy except it’s not that I wish I had a penis because I mean I really wouldn’t know what to do with it, it’s that I wish I was BETTER AT WRITING PLAYS. I saw a beautiful one last night that was stunning, cripplingly brilliant, gut punch of envy, humbled in the presence sort of good. Basically, it asks a bunch of the same questions that I’m asking in my upcoming Heaven Play, that I’ve been, you know, working on a year and a half, but it asks them BETTER. Clearer, Profoundererer. Better. It is such a specific feeling: joy that the play exists, that it so wonderful, that people are seeing it, that the conversation is happening, and at the same time, nausea at the thought that your life experiences are not unique to you, that your questions are uninteresting, already better asked, that you are no snowflake, that you are a copy of a copy. It’s the exact feeling of spending hours straightening your hair for a party and showing up and Oh look there’s a girl there with hair that does not respond to rain, straight like a silk curtain, and she’s read all of the books you have but she actually remembers them, and oh look it’s drizzling and your hair Chia pets and you realize you’re somehow covered in Barbecue sauce and okay, well I’m just going to go. As I have previously noted, when I feel a violent onset of creative jealousy, I find it best to release the feeling into the world. Admit it and in doing so, release it. Let it go, so that I might still think and write. AND SO, INTERNET, HERE IT IS.