As a playwright, I’m confident I should have a career equivalent to Sarah Ruhl plus Tony Kushner divided by Tennessee Williams, if it weren’t for the following:
- My kids. Obviously. First on the list. No brainer.
- My job. They don’t recognize my genius. I’m like, “Don’t you know who I am?” And they’re like, “Complete your task so we can pay you and go home.”
- Industry professionals. “Don’t you know who I am?” (Answer: No.)
- That I live here, and not there. But There is so expensive.
- That one time when I lived There. They didn’t recognize my genius. Plus, they’re the past. I am the future.
- All the people who are older than me and think they know so much. Suck it up, oldies: you’re irrelevant.
- All the people who are younger than me and think they know so much. Why don’t you come talk to me after you paid your dues like the rest of us? Also, your PlayStation called (Insert withering insult re: PlayStation here).
- My life choices. If only I hadn’t bother to seek shelter, food, or meet my basic needs. Curse my weakness!
- The Internet. Self-explanatory.
- The deluxe final season of Breaking Bad. Am I not made of flesh and bone?
That my plays maybe aren’t as good as I think they are.
- My boss. Definitely my boss. He’s all, “Blah, blah! Bossy, bossy!” I’m like, whatever.