You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment and see that I have transformed it into a performance art space.
In one corner, Yoko Ono is blowing smoke rings at the blossom of a wilted orchid. Between puffs, she throws her head back and yells: 'Wessonality!'
On my bed, Karen Finley is writhing naked in a pool of melted chocolate, pressing a photograph of Dr. Robert Atkins to her vagina, while groaning, 'Compliant...compliant...compliant.'
The Blue Man Group are standing in my toilet, chanting, 'Our act is down the drain! Our act is down the drain!' Privately, we snicker at their transparent literalness.
Having come prepared, you pull a string of Xmas lights out of your bag, loop them around your neck, plug them in and leap out of my window shouting, 'IT'S ALL FOR YOU, SANTA!'