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Patton Oswald's first wife died of an overdose of painkillers from a hotel room near their home. I recall watching a documentary "we were creative people. I understood completely what it meant to have to isolate yourself and get in the zone to be creative. I get it. I understand."
(and his wife - I am certain - caught the golden state sanctimonious rapist killer - and I loved what she said about her writing "I could have never published while my mother was alive")
I get it.
and another one, fictitious, Hannah from "girls" saying to Adam, when he asked what she was going to do that night, "oh .... and write."
and she loved that video she saw of tom holland and Zendaya and him doing a song by Rhianna and how fucking art. and how fucking yes.
to be creative.
to have someone support it.
it makes me hum.
she loved how he told her that s. king used "shitters" as his word for douches.
she loved so much about him.
and león had me write a mystery novel just because he had the idea and I thought it was fascinating that he didn't think it was inconceivable.
oh well.
soccer plays.
we pretend to unite
knowing that if my daughter was in competition with your daughter, we could fight annihilating wars to prove whom was the victor.
when I went downtown, I almost just un-pulled from the parking space and went back home to be with my favorite person: moi.
but I didn't. I stayed. I drank. I told him I was there.
he still thinks it's all sex for me.
not at all
not at all
it's now in the brain.
do you care what I think?
do you want to know?
then I'd fuck you to mars
but instead, we alleviate loneliness
and I think of you Leon.
I think of your second son - who had $700 boots he bought with his money from being a high school sous chef. I think of him fishing just because he wanted to be alone and he didn't even use bait. I think of you not liking pesto or mint, and I wonder if I'll ever see you again
and if you ever knew what you lost.
wouldn't it be so fun if you came home from whatever you were doing and I was there and we decided to watch something and eat fried fish and tomatoes.
but no.
you had to
say "great! so glad you called me on it, because I'm outski beeotch"
and I get to pretend to like
macon bacon
or not.
I loved you Leon. the editors will hate it because I've repeated myself again, but as we all know, I don't fucking write for editors.
I write because I can't not write.
I just finished a book from the library - I'm so cheap and socialist - about Vivien and Larry and the front foto is my fave - pure fucking joy
and we all know how that ends.
he loved her.
he was kind of gay and super competitive.
he gave up on her.
she died but lived.
the kind of end.
sometimes I scoff at my mother - my parents - at why I am so mad that I am born? even though I know in the millions of years humans could do it, it's only in my mother's generation it was scientifically possible to choose to have a child rather than "oh fuck, I guess we'll see what happens"
and I'm smart
and I was like "you fucking idiots should have never had a child - me. you had no gift to give me. just 'hope it works out' - fuck you and your narcissism - I am not programmed well"
oh well
fuck it.
what choice
thanks?
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