Waking up with boxes and British people in my head

I’m waking UP with a British parent — barking at me. “What the hell were you doing?!” I’m walking down the hall, okay? Benedict Cumberbatch snapping at me. Okay? I just have to work on the accent and get in a rehearsal room — and begin speaking. “Imagine?”

I mean, what else can I do? You know? But turn it into something, make fun, try to get crafty, move fast. With a generic British accent, I can say that family is real. It’s not like there was anything that bad, I guess, about the choices I made, but something didn’t make sense. That’s Common speaking through me, now.

The celebrities helped me, specifically, on the psycho-spiritual plane. As I am the psychic of all psychics, ridiculous. Can we all telepathically communicate, hypnotherapist? Well, let me tell YOU something, Cumberbatch is also, as I was described if you can imagine it, very loud on the psychospiritual plane. This man has a voice and he knows how to use it.

Anyway, jokes aside, leaving the man at the eternal tennis match, I am happy to be here, I just had to go through a ringer that was unnecessary to get here. After my father died, I took off to Paris, and one of my friends emotionally felt it was necessary, to get away from my second adopted family situation, and I’m not a character in a novel. That aside, dismissing this woman, this “like a mother,” because why the hell are we doing this in the first place, lady? Mother Maria is here, and Cate Blanchett is on speakerphone listening in. Okay, so my parents were ill, I get I was affecting, something. So that crumbles, which, well, I suppose someone might have seen that coming, like this was structurally unsound. Because my father was older, his illness wasn’t seen, though it was somewhat obvious, I think I told people that he was accused of being a child molester, eek, just eek, and I have a specialist in this arena telling me, I might not have known what was going on…

He’s taking notes, “why am I at this random Christmas party?” My parents are nowhere to be found… my mother is upstairs in a bed dying, enacting dying, can someone hear me? Is this a set up? Was I set up at seven? Please. I couldn’t even believe it, at seven, looking around this party, “why am I here?” Okay? Madness. It was utterly mad. Sure, to my stupid friends, I get I TOLD YOU it was a lie twenty years ago, what I’m saying NOW is — I’m doing a lot better, thanks, and I do not know anymore. Is this so hard? FOR YOU? Unreal. This is where “the actress” comes to my head — and I just go, “just slice them to shreds, please…”

Slice all these people to shreds.

Show them the power of words.

I will post more pictures of my parents now that I have all my stuff.

It’s like, the photo up above, I’m seven. I’m sitting with my parents somewhere, I don’t have many photos from this period, but WHAT am I doing here? I don’t have a room in my house, at that time. I’m living with another family, right? This is what my father wrote in his divorce file, so… what’s going on? These memories, these instances, when I realized they existed, I went around the world and back again. So I don’t know what to say. At the end of all this, needing to swap away years of commentary that shouldn’t have been there, meaning, people tended to interject and tell me, well this, well, you know, she probably, he probably, when — I’m living in another house because SHE said he was a threat to me. So silence. Now I don’t know what I’m looking at, and I went through hell. This woman bounced, you see, she left me at Angelica’s house, tried to slip out… my father is acting like the Confederacy of Dunces, a confederacy of dunces inside of him.

Now, I have less discomfort than I did, but this stupid guru waving his dick around in my face. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? I’m telling you, I’m over the hump, I just feel so different, I suppose, so present, clear, here, and I’m just thinking about the operational logic I had. Some dude, some plant medicine facilitator — WHY are you bringing me into this world? Why are you engaging with me like this? No offense, but that wasn’t exactly medicines, or whatever? So I was looking around like, why the fuck am I in this jumpsuit? Why am I in this room? No one did a proper induction, no one treated me seriously. So there you go, there’s the start of that. Why am I here? This wasn’t therapy, be real. Then, the slytherin, like, I end up befriending briefly someone in this group who’s a drug addict, basically. That’s what that was. Sure, he was a genius — so was she—sure he had special needs. Why am I here? And of course, the guru, the almighty guru, the hollywood guru. I open my mouth, at thirty, tell him a line from that stupid story, and now I got a guru. Someone who wants to help me “create reality.” Absurd. Meet Barbara Harris somewhere in there.

Fucking losers, getting into the Honda Civic with her, she stays, the ghost of Barbara Harris stays. Imagine? This bitch had to cross a goddamn barrier to assist me through this—successfully! Jesus, my head was a fucking MESS.

Sure, bring me a Shakespearean actor, so we might “take off” in a manner of speaking through the existentialism of all this. “You can create…your own reality…” I’m looking at myself, too, having befriended my old professor, even, in my twenties, wanting to BANISH him— banished. I was not an HEIRESS. I was not MAD CAP, either. Ugh, just please, I was a nice girl, in fact, who came from a real background. I get he takes himself to be wise… as all these men did… wisemen. So there goes that. This guru especially though, he was out of his element, out of his experience-set, just — out. And I went through a touch too much, if you would. Again, I went through such an intense experience, where ayahuasca reactivated itself in my gut, even, imagine? In the middle of all this? I saw psychic screens, just please. I don’t know what to say about that aspect of my experience, because I went through such pain in an area of my body — my hips, that I passed out. Okay? I do not know what to say about what a psychosis is, but does it SOUND like I went through a psychosis?

So there’s a line, everyone I knew is on the other side of it — nope, don’t want to talk to you, deal with your feelings about all this, can’t stomach it, literally, I gotta just clarify all this, and I’ll talk to you never. Bye. When you’re passing out, okay? Ayahuasca helping me, who knows, with all this? And a fucking guru, who just couldn’t hold himself back. He got into my business. Choice point, I evidently allowed someone to disrespect me, because that’s what he did. Now, I’m very clear, and this man wouldn’t even have dared to have done what he did. This WHOLE deacde was an enabling nightmare, like back off, I don’t need you, I don’t need a community, and if I “don’t have anyone,” assholes, why don’t you show me the door—go — you don’t have people? The trauma talk was too much, too indulgent. Some meeting between me and the world I moved through… as I always came from a story, and I moved through life with it, and people sought to support someone like me… exhausted. Not the way, child. So okay, I finally broke that spell. I can’t totally piece together what that whole experience pointed to, but the guru especially, THINK —

What in God’s name told you that his line of action would be a good idea. Like I needed another fucking PSYCHIC — this guy acted like he had secret knowledge and power. You might not know what you’re encouraging, LAD. An idiot. The hypnotherapist was like, “they were fucked up, this we know,” do you? I can’t even look at a picture of my father. Finally, I got all these external voices that I absorbed cleared out, since I couldn’t even hear myself think, but it was all sensational, I couldn’t function. So fuck you — the celebrities — flew — out of the wings of the psycho-spiritual planes in their SUPERHERO personas — to get me through this bullshit. Boom: fire. I had to laugh, I really did. When someone is telling you in all seriousness that you get bleedthroughs from other times, that you’re a portal of some kind, look at my HEADSHOT: I’m just a nice girl. But LOOK at the headshot, apparently, I was very successfully convincing people I was the psychic of psychics, the Fifth Element. It’s me. I am the Fifth Element. Okay? That’s what these men believed. I was manipulated, again!! Sure the guru might not have THOUGHT that’s what he’s doing, but that’s what he’s doing. Years, it took me years to basically clear my system. If the drugs I took, the medicines, whatever could have possibly been part of that, I don’t know, as I had stopped. It’s more that — I have a GURU — SHOVING REPRESSION AT ME TELLING ME I WASN’T FED AS A BABY INDIRECTLY okay? “THE THEME IS NOURISHMENT THEY FEED YOU FEED YOU FEED YOU.” And was I actually repressed asshole? Or, shall I begin to do a silly dance, silly dance around this mother fucker, “were you just having fun?” Did you just mean “emotionally?” Like LOOK AT YOURSELF.

THAT GURU was destructive. what the fuck did he think? That — implying I wasn’t fed as a baby was going to HELP me? To then fling me around, like “this isn’t the holocaust,” fuck you. He was a robot. And if I hear some ROUTINE that this was love, I will teepee his house — Jennifer Lopez and I are throwing TOILET PAPER all over his goddamn house. She’s pulling up in a fucking nice car — packed with toilet paper rolls, and it’s time. I have to laugh, okay? Because none of these people gave a SHIT about me. “What you went through reminds me of Carl Jung’s The Red Book…” whoopee cushion, this is what I mean. I came to understand there IS a time and place for one. FART. Carl Jung. So I made it out of that. I definitely had ups and downs, I definitely had a terribly confused sense of what reality is? I wandered the earth, being told by these gurus “BETWIXT and BETWEEN” whatever this fuck this was! I was in the hospital — and this jerks acted as if I didn’t go through anything REAL. Everyone did. HOW is that supposed to help me? THINK.

Hollywood is ON speakerphone, I’m recording this conversation with everyone I know FOR THEM. Joaquin Phoenix is making breakfast. I know that because I am psychic, idiots. Ohhh but it doesn’t work like that, do do do, changing their tune. I was a goddamn mess. So you be psychic. Bother someone else. This ex of mine, laughing at me that I was always a portal, channel, antenna, something like this, traveling on multiple planes of existence. Look at this photo of me as a baby:

I was just there, you know, feeling like goo

Is that what you see? You see, I came through that woman’s very real body, I was a BABY, a real one, I came into this plane of existence in flesh and blood, and how ridiculous that I have to go to such lengths? Laughing, his stupid laughing emojis, which were not a joke— I got through my life through SHEER WILL? He said? Because I was always a portal? He sounds nuts. What the fuck are you talking about? I wa looking at this phone, where am I? Turkey. Reject. Remember how Dave Chappelle locked the car doors? That’s what I’m doing — this was the weirdest bad neighborhood — weird. M. Night Shamala…….

Hannah Arendt is smoking, reading this, “at least,” she thinks, “give her some room.” She got here, you see, it’s only understandable that she’s upset. Yes, the psychic period is over, definitively. Arendt is going “phew.” I had to laugh picturing what she would say to all this. “Portal? You’re a portal?” I was stuck in the classics, in throes of invoking the Gods. Look, you can believe what you’d like, but I’m more on her end of things. It sucks to see sense, in a way, that I came from weird beginnings, feeling very real about it, and that’s where I ended up. But — my looks??????????? Made me a star? Unclear here. Is that what I’ve come to understand? Or was it my “touching personality?” The slytherin believed I was “elite,” I could be, I only needed the, uh, proper introductions… why was this necessary?

I mean, I suppose, sure. I didn’t dislike him either, upon first glance, by the way he can treat people, it’s a bit of a no-go. It was nice that he wanted to get me an apartment, a job, all that, it was more not the right direction. I would never do drugs with him, sorry, that’s a real friend talking. I don’t know why I was THERE. Therapy group? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm… again, I’m not doing this every day… that’s not what this was, but I’m not getting involved. Not your girl. The slytherin.

I’m looking at my coat of arms, hilariously, as my father enjoyed genealogy and we might have been a military family. I don’t know about Nick, but that was a tough end, where I got wrapped up in a total clusterfuck with friends, though they weren’t, obviously, my family, prepared, experienced, though they thought they were, acting like I didn’t say what I did, and expecting me to want to talk to them? Why? We’re no longer friends, type deal. My cousins — see you next lifetime. Too much happened that I’m now aware of. I didn’t need weird ass attachments from a couple of parents, no offense. I was a cousin, for the love of God. I SAY what I mean. Respect me. Child molester, ooooo, in a witch’s hat, oooooooo, and I would watch these cowards slither away. You want to DISBELIEVE — do it on your own time. That’s what Dr. J did. And I didn’t go to foster care, don’t know what to say there, and I suppose I was in a vague universe, even enchanted, enchanting, I can’t — I can’t even with this being attractive. Fuck off. They seemed to be right though, that I was not exactly me, who I was, so they win, not my friends. They were right.

That’s not who I was. Not according to them.

And if the slytherins did send me that stupid message at 5 AM, whatever that was, I have to factor that into this equation regardless, but I don’t know what that means yet. I hate my ex, with guts. Why was he necessary to faciliate the return of my money after that message? Since they brought him in. WHY? Why is he acting like a middle man when I sent an apology email. Hilarious. I sent an apology email to them, because that message HIT me, literally, in the gut, though I was under a lot of tension at that time, and I couldn’t help it. An apology email. No response. A call at noon. I hung up the phone. Then, he calls.

Easy, “we don’t know why you’re apologizing, just let us know where to send the fucking money.” Phew, I got a weird message last night. That’s not what happened. My ex, on the phone, he’s not asking me, “what’s going on???????? I’m confused.” He’s not going, “NO, I’m not accepting the money for you because you are not in danger.” He’s literally facilitating the return of my money. Why? Me? In his shoes, I’m not doing it. You see? Because it’s unnecessary. “Just give them your account info, Maria,” but then, we didn’t get to that part, did we? So, in my mind, I have reason to suspect that they did indeed send me that message, so that’s the story I’m going with. What, were they afraid of a goddamn lawsuit? WHOOPEE CUSHION. He accepted the money for me, didn’t say, “there’s no reason for you to be freaking out,” though I tried to remain as calm as possible, which I shouldn’t have, and HE wrote me the check. WHY was that necessary? No offense, ever go, drugs make you retarded? That’s what I’m seeing. Retarded. A cop is on my side.

That whole thing was unnecessary. It was unnecessary to attach a lawyer to that email. It made the entire thing look sort of guilty. That spun out of control. And coincidentally, when my other friends called this group a couple months later, nobody says anything about the weird way I was acting a couple months before? WHY? And then, the slytherin farts on the phone at me long and hard… so fuck you.

Then I got the best friend with stars in his eyes because a stupid screenwriter decided to mentor me… just stop. He hardly ever even read a book. And if I may, because I’m making choices every step of the way, I don’t know what to say on the other side of all this, I never wanted to be here in the first place. I’m so special, this guru, ew, just ew, I’m going to help you as some secret guru, or something, with the ANSWER but I can’t tell you what it is directly, like this is the Hero’s Journey. Like I met the Wizard of Oz. “As your manager,” this guy says, my best friend. Speaking of retarded? Really really retarded? I gave this mother fucker, this so-called friend, 5,000 dollars I didn’t have to borrow HIS furniture. THINK. So he could DECORATE… so he could have a bigger BUDGET — some word he kept on SHOVING in my face. It didn’t make sense. And if he had an ulterior motive, which it sounds like he did, didn’t he? As your manager… as your actor… wanting to play the psychological device… death, this fictional character who showed up in my draft one day, it’s just an IDEA girl. Luckily I didn’t lose that thread, but “Death is a really good psychological device,” the guru said, absurd. INSIDE this, I give my friend 5,000 dollars to borrow his furniture, “wee hoo, hello idiots, what sense does that make?” I suppose I could have lived there for a couple of years, taken some of it with me, I don’t know. Maybe he would have gifted it all to me, I don’t know. But there was a lot of delusion swirling around me. “As your manager…”

I’m seeking to have TEA, you see, with real people. Real people who enjoy me. I’m seeking a man who wants to have sex, sure, okay? And maybe conversation. The ghost of Barbara Harris had to come back from the dead, for the love of God, to help me through this, a woman who could play that character, but of course, these people believe she’s really real. She’s here, she’s in my room, her spirit, her essence, her energy, whatever, and she’s literally helping me through this. Okay, I shrug. Yup, I am psychic, so I have access to this dimension, according to all these men. It’s a specific gender. Men. Cool, people say you can manifest — so, I’m going to manifest NETFLIX, precisely. I’m going to MANIFEST X-MEN returns. I am Professor X’s protegee in a helmet as I am a little too psychic, you see, too psychic to even manifest. “You want a comedy show that PUSHES boundaries?” Meanwhile…this comic…he waited… good man… and he approached me at the bar.

“So are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Psychic, are you really psychic?”

Yeah, that one.

I’ve had some interesting experiences, but no offense, in looking back, I’m going “no,” okay? I’ve got RON on my channel, “no— not the right direction.” No offense, but how was this supposed to help me? How was this supposed to clear up…my basic confusion? Really? I get that my ex, suggested to deal with my mother, what I don’t understand is why I’m here? Too mixed up. Now this guy, basically, like, why am I flying to NYC to support you during a trial? Why is this getting mixed up?

Dude, in the words of Julie, I didn’t even know what I was doing. Not the person to get involved with, actually, looking at him. Little strange there. Like, take a look around. Why are you in Paris? Cate Blanchett and I — quick — in a vehicle — we’re on the move — lol. “She’s lost her mind!” I think back, even, right? I had no money, which wasn’t actually true, right? But I had no money, and my old professor gave money to float, ugh, you know, so I could continue living in Paris… for no reason. This was his grand plan, his vision for me — supporting me in this vision. I was worth more than that. I was also worth more than moving to England to marry Prince Harry. Imagine? He was not joking. Like, move to London? Marry Prince Harry?

I have to laugh.

So cool, the road was the road. Got a little confusing there. And I remember, getting nervous, like who gives a shit what this man thinks, I got out of Lecoq, and I thought about moving to LA to try acting. He did not approve. So, listen to me, don’t listen to anybody. And you, on the other side, know your place. Not your life. Whipping this napkin, with Cate Blanchett. We’re going to order food now.

I was a nice-looking girl wrapped up in a bit of ethereal logic. I was remarkable to these MEN… for reasons I wished I had kept private. I just needed to find a psychologist. A real one, no offense to the one I saw, and THANKS you money hungry bitch. Whoosh, whoosh, even she was taken with me — bad sign, bad news. It was just a no, across the board. Amazing, at the end of all this, as if a new world opens when YOU DO, the key, it’s so true, “why not try a trauma specialist?” That’s the sexual trauma specialist. UH HUH, at 39.

So now, I gotta start over from scratch, essentially. I’ll try to find a support group, because honestly, holding someone’s hand on the psycho-spiritual plane, I don’t know about other people who wake up to this sort of situation. I, personally, got crushed, crashed, and had to begin at ground level.

And no, I do not want to talk to anyone — surprise!

Dave Chappelle, hello? On the psycho-spiritual plane?

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really.”

Who knows what he’d really say. I’m not confused here.

I’ll pay back my mother now as I had to borrow a little money. I really didn’t want to borrow from her. She gave me some routine — imagine — about needing to see someone about my mental health — go look at yourself. That person, that specialist, is on my side. “Let me tell you about them,” you see, “my family.” Wouldn’t it be understandable, that I would be a fucking mess in light of everything I was waking up to? So that’s a line in the sand, did me wonders. Don’t worry, I’m a Lannister, I’m not a Starke, I always pay my debts. Rolling my eyes at these blonds. Completely absurd, throwing soil, digging into the garden because I have to. He’s holding space in a chair.

“She’ll be alright.”

I’m grabbing shovels, sticking them in. I become a source of entertainment.

“Italian.”

I don’t know, I thought about boundaries a lot, I thought about getting tangled up in the unreality of it all, needing to stop taking it all on. I took on all my parents’ problems, all of them. I had a super complicated family with some good/evil witch of a Brazilian mother who STILL resents ME. “We had fun,” whoopee cushion. “The sex scandal, you mean?” So I decided for the moment to not talk to her at all. I said I didn’t know if that was true, you jerk, thanks. They acted just like everybody else. Like I didn’t say that. And she wasn’t sure, another one of these — scary moments. “It’s not true is it?” She asked me when I was nine. WHY don’t you ASK HIM? At times, I look at photos and I go, no way, come on, I can’t even look at the man. And then, in the story, I’m — in Arnesic and Old Lace, insanity itself. I’m getting dropped off like a thing, as the money ran out, and she’s trying to slip out, and my father is — acting like nothing is happening.

WHAT? Is this difficult? Clear out a fucking room. Put a bed in it. Pick me up, take me home. None of that happened. So, in the end, was it true? Does that sound crazy to you? Does that sound impossible? Given the situation I was in. Mixed in with bored rich people? I don’t know. People who wanted to help, not knowing what they were doing, what they were looking at, though they acted like they did?

So I thought, this morning, in a cherry t-shirt, because why not, at this point? I never had any concrete ideas, so I can count my blessings, in fact. I found that I was so full of creativity, I really did, on the other side of that. I never had any real ideas as to what I could do as a performer, for example, this was an arena I could never really enter. And Arendt is going, well, it’s a public medium, isn’t it? So, I think that’s true. And that was so healing, standing on a comedy stage, at first, just to bring a story to the realm of reality, because I don’t have anything to hide. And now, I’m trying to see if I can do a show, I have ideas for characters, all that. The Joker’s Daughter is good, it’s a solid idea. There might be a villain inside of me, and that moved me so deeply, I don’t know why. I could bring some awesome villains into the world, I could make statements even, in action, as to what that means.

I look at my mother in this picture, holding me as a baby, and I really wonder, what happened Dr. J? She got into drugs? Alcohol? Not when she was pregnant…I think that’s obvious. But she’s, in this picture, telling my father that she was beaten at two, to the point of being sent away. And here I am telling an equally unsettling story. So I have a hard enough time because it’s challenging to look at photos — for real?

I’m trying to get ballsier, and if that means goodbye to everyone, type deal, then that’s what it is. And look, I’m a Neapolitan, okay? That’s for the guru. So going “quietly” is not in the cards. Neapolitans don’t give a shit. They don’t give a shit about LOSING, death. They’re killing the mercenaries. That’s the truth. So if you cross me, if you in fact acted weirdly, the Neapolitan isn’t going to shy away… the Neapolitan is going to rise by any means necessary. It’s in the blood, even if it’s in small amounts in my case, this man offended my blood. Role playing my father over a lost DVD. There will be a tsunami wave — coming for you. I cannot help that. My anger for that guy is deep. So, let it be what it is. Him trying to act like he didn’t DO anything. Confessing his love to me somewhere in there. Not fed as a baby.

Look, maybe I wasn’t cared for properly, I have no idea. WHY IS THIS MAN HERE? My fingers are in a pinch, IN A PINCH, if you want someone THRILLING, it’s me as the NEAPOLITAN. And a crowd would gather round to watch me tell this person OFF. I’m getting BACK UP. It’s just the way it is. Don’t get involved with a Neapolitan in any kind of shady context. It’s ONLY attack, verbally. And the SHEER committment, the endurance, it’s ancient. We do not TIRE, not when it comes to revolution. So, I can’t help that. A Neapolitan will shrug, she’s pissed. And like, look, pointing to some random girl — like you want a pretty girl? My cousins can take you to many corners in the country of Italy — and beginning to diffuse this “knoooowww life is about what you wannnnaaa know…” to then get into some convo, the next time, about my PAIN? WHY, picking it out of the air bringing it into a single PINCH, “are YOU doing this?” I GET — me, I got me handled, now, why I went along with this crap. Not cool. That was not a cool move. Right at the beginning. Circle it.

WHY is this happening to BEGIN with? Go look at yourself.

That’s where I should have left. Step one. Interacting with the world was an ordeal. I might be a bit harsh now, but I played into too much sentiment and ignorance, quite frankly. In the words of John Goodman, I can get you a story by 3 o’clock. “You want a story about a crazy family? 3 pm, if that.” It seems like this guru was taken with me, I just don’t know what that means, and I’m looking at my headshot, right? And now, I’m going “oh I was quite pretty, wasn’t I?” Nice looking. Namaste. Peace be with you. I don’t give a shit about this guy. Dumpster. If he thinks that was cool — he’s super deranged. I follow HIM perfectly now. You lousy piece of shit.

I gotta work on that character too: my Neapolitan persona, a favorite among my cousins. We’re — charging to the center of town with a MEGAPHONE. We’re not intimated by palaces, even, we’re GOING TO THE PALACE — directly. We’re not hesitating. These Spanish will tell you, “these people are impossible.”

That was my psyche, that was my life, and the direction I went down harmed me. And when I think back to some of the things this man said to me, to most people, they would sound crazy. And in the end, I’m wrestling with whether or not I was abused.

I have no idea what to say.

So everyone I know — is over there. Obi lan, that old Neapolitan: OBI LAN. Stay very very far away. I had a life thus far that totally surprised me. I got totally sideswiped, I thought I knew who I was, I didn’t, I guess, I had to undergo a pretty deep evolution of self, by necessity. Me, today, I’m not going anywhere near this logic, at all, anywhere near these people.

Crazy town, that’s where I came from. Crazy town. It’s a real town. My mother’s escort GHOMI? Crazy! What did he do for “the government?” that he weirdly didn’t want to talk about? I got the picture. That woman had a responsibility, period.

Again, I can turn all this into something now. There’s nothing I can do about the past, but I feel, now, in the position of clarity I am in, like I was deeply misunderstood. You did not have an accurate READ at all. Exercise a little DOUBT, psychics, that’s my first piece of advice.

I’m trying to think about ways my personal experience might help others in moving forward. Like, I obviously went through a lot, some of which I can’t PLACE, but I’m trying to push forward and keep insisting on my right to stand on a stage, type deal. So I’ll keep going. I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into, to be frank, needing to wave away EX-friends from my mind, as their DISBELIEF truly speaking is like, INSIDE of me. I dealt with too much, considering the actual story. So stay away. Ever been hurt? Like it hurts too much, so that’s a “in a few generations,” there’s that shaman, smiling, smiling before you. He’s turning his hand, “maybe in a few generations…” as I am a shaman, behold.

So now, I’m just giving myself room to emote and trying to think what my actual gifts are. Gifts I can apply. The only thing, funny enough, when I start thinking, I just want to try performing, actually, I always return there. Like I’m just not going to be happy unless I give myself a shot. But I’m trying to think of other activties that would fulfill me, places to put my experience, like, okay, I wasn’t expecting all this, I wasn’t expecting to surface into the real world with the story… I didn’t know…so I didn’t want to be here at my age, if that makes sense, but I’m trying to embrace it, I’m trying to think how I can assist others, how I can translate. It’s not fun.

So for the moment, I’m sort of at ground zero with only a fraction of my life preserved, because I didn’t give a shit, you see. With my belongings at different people’s houses, and I didn’t realize that, so I lost a lot of my memories, momentos, and I had to just gather what I could and take it from there. People have lost everything, that’s true, in FIRES, even. I’m fine on that end. I’ve got some stuff, and I’m arguably at a better debut. I gotta just bring in cash, so I can take an acting class, as I’m at level one in practice and I gotta keep evaluating if I like it, and I’ll keep thinking about a show. I have to work on accents, characters, I have to spend some time developing stuff. I want to finish a book, will it sell? I don’t know. That’s the truth. I get there’s a BOOK that will sell, guru, in a probable reality in the future, but I don’t know. I’ll keep that going. I feel like I’m in a better spot now, simply by NOT being HYPER FOCUSED on ONE TINY aspect of my life. I’ll explore scripts, maybe, and I’ll see where I can apply my personal experiences — I tried applying to work at a mental health center, I don’t know how to write about that yet, nor how to present myself on social media, but for the moment, I record my open mics, and I’m starting there. Maybe my wisdom wouldn’t apply to everyone, shrugging, because that’s obvious. I’m not an absolutist.

I’m getting rid of the rest of my closet, so epic, because in the end, in clearing my storage unit, it was just the goddamn hangers. I dumped that shit on the curb. Holding this WWII veteran flag. I’m going to get rid of the rest of it as it’s so not me anymore, and I’ll try to get credit and take time perusing around and rebuild…since I’m starting from the ground up. That’s what it is. Let’s see how fast I can move. That’s all I gotta do, is envision a way, and move fast. Anyway, that’s it for today. Thanks.