Oh, I'm not going to be crying about it for just a year.

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Oh, I'm not going to be crying about it for just a year. No, no, no. In fact, a year from now I'll still be making these threads. Two years from now I will. Maybe three. The fourth year I will be fully engaged in my professional career, clawing my way up through the ranks of entertainment, building my public profile and my fortune, becoming a public figure known and beloved by all. When I am famous, and have great works under my name and have a following, then I will wait. I will wait for the call from the producers of The Late Show. They will probably reach my agent or my manager first, but they will ask me to come on the show, to be a guest, to promote my new movie or book or whatever. And I will accept. And I will travel to New York, to the Ed Sullivan Theater in downtown Manhattan, and I will wait in the green room until the lady tells me it's time to walk in, and I will do exactly that. Then? Big applause. The band plays. Stephen eyes me from his desk with that fat, disingenuous smile on his face, staring at me from beyond any real emotion or feeling, sensations that were ripped out of him years ago by a short-lived father and the knowledge that the world is a cruel, unfeeling place. But I don't give a shit, we all have our demons. I shake his hand, give him a hug in fact, and then make my way to my seat. I start by telling him that I love the theater, because it truly is beautiful, and his set is definitively the best in all of Late Night. I tell him what a big fan I was of The Colbert Report when I was a teenager. But I am not a fan of this. I am not a fan of the way he has bastardized late night television, which should be one of the few non-political spaces in American discourse. I tell him that Johnny Carson would be sick and ashamed of him. I tell him he's a two-bit hack in a parasitic relationship with the President, that he would be a miserable failure without him. Then I walk out to heavy booing. Probably wouldn't even make it to air.