[tags]Brenda H, fiction[/tags]
Rehearsal went stunningly wrong. Everybody’s trying to win their Oscar on the first day. I guess it’s positioning. I guess everybody’s assuming the position. I guess Ronnie, the buttfucker, is having a great time, but as for me, I can barely walk. Incidentally, you filthy-minded yahoos, this is all metaphor, not to be taken literally. Take me anyway you can, just take me. Must see what I can do today. Health–both mental and physical. Okay, let’s see what else is going on. Nowadays. I’m not too worried about strict realism. I’m not too surprised by anything anybody does. Georgia, the cat, had a bath yesterday. The scratches will wear off by the time we shoot, but the scars will linger forever. Stomach problems. I’m as shy as a ghost, as lonely as a possum and twice as horny. But I will survive–cue the disco please–if the guilt doesn’t kill me. I’m doing fine Oklahoma. Oklahoma, OK. The director’s spinning his wheels, which is okay if he finally gets some traction, not okay if he skids us into the muck. Oh jeez, car metaphors, a violation of my parole. Writing without a license. You’re going to be surprised when you find out the movie and who I am. Or maybe not. Sometimes I can go for weeks and nobody recognizes me. Sometimes I can’t set foot outside. Who’s life is it anyway? My life, for one. Any others? Hands? How many more fears? My parents came of age in the 60s, when “ambition” was a dirty word. Their fatal flaw. They didn’t care about money, hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about getting it, didn’t enjoy spending it and consequently worried about it all day long. Irony and sarcasm aren’t the same thing, people, mark my words. BONG HITS FOR JESUS!

BH