See the way it is, is like this. The entire world is made up of conversations. Everything, as far as I’m concerned, relates through conversation. It’s why I write so much dialogue (well that and I’m a wordy bitch). It’s just the way I think.

In my head, everything talks. Hrm. Well what I mean is that anything that is, is having a conversation. It’s how you explain things. Some people just know stuff, or look at an object and go “Oh, that’s what it is for,” and that might be great for them, but for me it is always a conversation.

Take spoons and forks, for example. Now you can look at a spoon and a fork and decide which one is better for eating soup. It shouldn’t be hard. But for me, it turns into this:

“Hey, Bob, so, uhhh, which one of us is better for, you know, the soup?”

“Probably me. Bernice. I’m better at everything. I’m a god damned fork. I’m a fork! People love forks.”

“Yeah, but, like, I can cradle the soup, you know?”

“Do you also work the shaft? You working with soup or hanging out on the corner like your mom?”

“You know what, Frank, fuck you. With your tines and your big wide open spaces that are utterly useless for liquid management.”

“I’ll stab you, swear to god. I’ll stab you right in the… the… little cuppy part you call a face.”

“Try it, you be-tined bastard!”

And then they have nasty hate sex and a few months later (I got no clue how long it takes silverware to gestate, all right) we ended up with the spork.

See? I look at a spoon and a fork and think about soup and get all the way up to sporks. I like to think of it as a gift. A horrible, never-ending, makes me cry myself to sleep at night type of gift. A gift that keeps giving. Like… leprosy. Well that’s the gift that keeps taking, I suppose. But you know what I mean, some sort of thing that keeps giving, long after you want it to stop.

But that’s kind of what I do. I hear these conversations in my head and I write them down and then I try to sell them to you. You guys then ask why you should pay good money for them and we’re right back to crying myself to sleep.

Fucking conversations. They’ll be the death of me yet.