Dear Humans on the Internet,

The weird thing about playwriting is that sometimes you write a play and you write some stuff for it that you really love but you have to cut it because it no longer fits into the play you're writing. I'm right there right now and it's totally making me mental! I wrote this monologue on a plane and I am cutting it from JOHN CUSACK but I want to share it with you all.

MAT: I work nights. By choice. I am spared the days of the strident clicking of bureaucrats visiting our provincial capital and meeting in the lobby. Spared the obviousness of no one really listening to each other. Each of them pounding the keyboards of laptops, blackberries and odd sized little blue tooth keyboards. The pinched-face women never look at me and the ruddy men with their whiskey noses never stop looking at me.

The day times are the saddest times in the hotel: people have yet to drown the desperation of their inability to please anyone in booze and anonymous sex. They have yet to sweat through the night, panting away their suffering below or on top of beautiful, blissful anonymity.

In the daytime they judge each other. Whisper about who is fucking who despite a wife and x number of kids at home; despite a rich cardiac surgeon husband. Like any of that matters. A false morality imposed on a world of too much choice to turn down.

I see it all and it turns me on. Like those socks all those years ago. Often to the point of a dull ache deep inside. Often to the point of offering myself up as the choice for those wishing to forget where they are or where they might be going.