I often fantasize about being a successful novelist. Sometimes, I'm the mysterious, hermit type like J.D. Salinger, adored and pined for by so many phrase-making aficionados. But in my fantasy, the world disgusts me, and like Salinger, I contemplate my self-righteous goodness in perfect solitude. Other times, I'm the marry-the-most-desirable-woman-in-the-country type like Arthur Miller. True, Miller was a playwright, and the woman he married was a complicated and needy hick named Norma Jean, but I don't care about those things. The man was still a writer who regularly humped Marilyn Monroe, and that's what counts.
I was on my way. I've completed one book, that, in retrospect, was written with youthful zest and just isn't flying. At the time, I was way too close to the subject, and now that I'm sane again, I've realized that I'll have to rewrite a lot of it. Sadness. I guess I should get on it though, since my other fantasy of travelling through time and imparting my god-like understanding of the natural world and universe to history's greatest thinkers isn't as realistic. I'm aware of the dangerous time-paradoxes, but with selfish disregard, the only one that concerns me is the one where I don't travel far back enough, and the people I encounter still know more than I, the average American, and I appear and am reviled as a futuristic moron. You have to consider these things when you're fantasizing. The other two books I started writing are about half done, but I know, deep in my wicked and apathetic heart, I only started them so I wouldn't have to face the dissatisfaction I felt and still feel with the first one.
The screenplay Roger and I started is still a viable option for success, but we haven't spoken as much since he tried to rape me at Bash's mancation a couple weeks back. No amount of exfoliating apricots has been able to scrub the smell of his hand from my face, and I fear seeing him will initiate a virgin panic attack. There I was, minding my own business, dressed in my pinkest and prettiest Sunday dress when Roger, not unlike "the Big, Bad Wolf" of nursery lore, skewed my pretty bonnet, tore my bra strap, and dirtied the frills of my favorite Hello Kitty socks. But I digress. What else can I do?
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