Sometimes I wonder — especially on days when I don’t have time to write something here, or anything much to say — why exactly do I keep writing here, why have I been doing this since June 2007? It’s always been important to me for this blog to stay incredibly not important. I try not to put pressure on myself to say anything profound and just let it about small things, the occasional big, almost like a scrapbook of some kind. If I stopped posting here, would anyone (besides maybe myself, and my parents, hi) actually care? But I can’t even let that question stop me because it’s beside the point. I’m a single person of nearly 8 billion, I’m a single playwright of maybe less than 8 billion, there are probably somewhere between 5 and 5000 actual alive playwrights, and I get to be one of them. And this space is for my one little life, the things that linger in my one brain, what I’m hungry for and scared of, the singular people that I get to love and how they’re celebrities to me. This space will be around perhaps forever as the internet can’t, yet it seems? be lost in a house fire. So really what I’m doing here is making sure I get to write my own post-humous memoir, it’s a very long sentence on my gravestone, it’s living in the future when I’m Gone, but while I’m lucky enough to still be Here.