I am Simon Stone. Or I am Simon Stone’s idea of his public image. I am Simon Stone’s publicist’s mother.

I am Simon Stone’s publicist’s mother, standing over a garden bed, looking at the sky, and thinking ‘Huh, good job I guess.’

Her daughter is on the phone sobbing because a newspaper printed an article called Simon Stoned.

Simon Stone in a rage this morning, we forgot to think about him last night, and he’s really upset his publicist didn’t embed those thoughts better.

Simon Stone tried to finish The Simon Stone E-newsletter tonight but lord knows that thing goes for 444 pages.

Simon Stone Fruit. He’s not even joking. He wants in your kid’s lunchbox.

Simon Stone is trying to figure out if and how that article about Haiti is secretly about him.

It probably costs like $7500 to fly Simon Stone to Melbourne to speak at a writers’ festival or playwriting event.

Simon Stone, sitting back, sipping a Bundaberg and Coke, imagining middle Australia; a hot dude telling me Belvoir Street is a dive.