I had an emotional injury earlier this year. That’s why I’ve been cognitively paralyzed for quite a while and in recovery. What happened? Well, metaphorically speaking, a Chevron truck of the biggest tank of gas that you’d even shiver in your cheap Japanese coupe when it got so close on the 710 crashed into my Hello Kitty Honda Accord and blew my brain up. Ever since then, what I do everyday are just work and write.
Of course, I’m not gonna write screenplay. That’s too provincial for a disturbed, crazy woman like me. Everybody in L.A. writes screenplay. So what. Instead, I only write stuff that get men that broke my heart in trouble. So now I’m writing a kick-ass x-rated love story about Grass-eater as my top-priority project every night. I stare at the street where he kissed me, his trees, his lamp poles, his open lots, right in front of his home, sip some cheap beer with almost no food, and write. You think Bukowski is tragic-cool? Not even close. That dude’s just a drunk fuck. Wait until you see how a mentally disabled woman on her $8 Ikea folding chair with Miller beer in hand writes, THEN publishes it. As much as I know nothing I write is libel or invasion of privacy and Grass-eater will have no case, I have asked my lawyer friends, read about them and am prepared that not even until next life, but just soon after I publish it, I may see his lawyer’s letter in my mailbox and meet him again in court. Woo! I’m gonna see my used-to-be knight in shining armor again in the U.S. Supreme Court! How new! I’ve never been sued before. :-D
Why do I have to do that instead of let it go? Cuz I’m sick of being silenced. How many times have mom and dad and these men tried to drive me out of my nut head so they can take over it? Since the moment I sat on the couch in the model unit in this building, read through the terms and signed the lease of this apartment in Downtown and my own head after Grass-eater scorned me, I make no deal with anybody that shuts me off again. I have my own place, and my own head, and they are both under rent control either in the sense of the City of L.A. or my emotional security, so no one can kick me out as long as I pay rent. Ever heard of the story of Echo and Narcissus in Greek mythology? She was punished for talking too much. Know what? I’m SO going to talk about grass eating all out aloud! Instead of repeating the last few words others say like how Echo is cursed to, I fuck that narcissist dude’s brains out AND write about him. He may only see his own reflection on the river. He may only run away from me as far as he can because he is frightened of the burning flame in me, but I know so well that he is going to remember how it was like when my beautiful naked body was in his bed every morning he wakes up hard and the intense writing I do that he dares not even read. This’s not even feminism. This’s simply hysteria.