Assuming that Shakespeare did exist as this wonderful playwright we know and love, I'd like to take him out to dinner.

I wouldn't take him to Medeival Times, or anything corny like that. It might puzzle him. No, I would take him to Seva and we would eat organic food, and he may not like it, but the point is not the food.

I just want to converse with him. I want to tell him all about my English professors of the past and I want him to laugh.

I want him to tell me things were misinterpreted.

I want him to tell me: that wasn't symbolic for that!

I want him to tell me we've taken it too far. That he was just trying to entertain a crowd of people who would hardly be able to comprehend one of my English professors' lectures. He was witty, he was great, but we've taken it too far.

I want him to help me write a thesis on how he really was and how it really was. I want to send this thesis to every haughty English professor I've ever had. The ones who told me one year he didn't exist, and the next year he was the greatest man ever, and the next year he was actually a woman. I want them to read the collective writings of William Shakespeare with commentary by yours truly, and laugh.

And after a gooey chocolate dessert, I want him to tell me how he really saw Richard III, and I want him to tell me what was going on with all his lame female characters. But most of all, I want him to wear purple tights.

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