I’m looking at photos of Tina Turner, I’m reading Somebody’s Daughter, and I’m thinking about this guy I met and how I’m going to tell him — ask me out on a date. Pick a nice spot. Ask me out on an official date. Okay? New attitude. Is this so novel? I can’t stand this “let’s hang out” business. You know?
I’m LOOKING at Amal Clooney. If you were to go up to her, “let’s hang out” in a t-shirt, I believe she’d say, “sure, sounds good…” walking out the door. That’s my icon right there. My mother, I believe, sort of wanted to be Amal Clooney.
So, look, this author’s father was a rapist, he was sent to prison for raping two women, and she, herself, was raped. She goes to prison with nothing but love in her heart to embrace him. She can’t resolve all these parts, but she’s not attempting to, she’s a positive person — what the hell was she supposed to do?
No offense, but at least on the comedy stage I can be brutally honest. White people: calm down, yes the Rema song. I’m telling you, at times, I was appalled. Thanks for caring—not. I don’t know what to do with the Zen Master Sybil (played by Oprah, hopefully) who was a Zen Master psychologist I consulted — her basic feedback was rage. I had to say “how dare you?” And I found that to be true, so I don’t know.
I was disrespected very young.
She needs a drink, for sure, after seeing her father in prison. I’m not exactly like that. Though when I saw Dr. J for the last time with my ex-brother, you know, the one who told me he was committing manslaughter in some states by giving people AIDS — okay? — for ten years. Was it a JOKE? Dr. J, everywhere. Also in love with me.
And my Neapolitan cousin, Vico, the siren, saw that shit — coming. NO, my cousins said NOOOOO, Maria no! Impossible! No! “How the,” pinches in my face, “how the hell am I IN another family?!” First of all. “Three families?”
“I was an existential CRISIS,” to GIGGINO.
“No, no, it’s impossible. Brothers are not supposed to be in love with their siblings!”
No. “Absolutely not.”
This was the Neapolitan response.
I have to laugh because I couldn’t speak Italian, right? When I reunited with my cousins in Naples — just my cousins I spent a few summers with, be real. And they are asking me if I had a drinking problem. But considering the story, wouldn’t they apologize now? This woman, a woman who had been raped, who went to visit her father in prison for 24 years because he raped two women? Yeah, she needed a drink.
I’m not exactly like that.
And IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE.
“NO!”
The Neapolitans.
“BRAVA MARIA BRAVA…” they can change their tune.
When it was unreal, the story, I got nothing but comments, but when it becomes real, my hunch is — silence. That’s the way it’s been thus far. A terrible truth. But I got comics and my scorpio — in Venus — to thank. The comics get it: she has no idea if she was molested, raped, she’s coming to terms with all this. They’ve been so supportive, truly, listening to Amaramente — right now — and remembering so fondly, the way their eyes shifted towards that stool, on stage, when I was in too much pain in my hips, weird pains, “I’m wearing a Lidocaine patch…” I collapsed into the stool. “So I was in a sex scandal when I was four…”
It wasn’t funny, not yet, but it’s definitely funny.
I don’t necessarily want to even speak to anyone in my old life right now, besides a few people, because that was such a mess. My friends, not one, remembered. The story was the same, and it didn’t make sense, regardless, I was writing a story about these years, no? Did I—hm???— go through a mental health crisis? For real? Yes.
Why I wasn’t believed I don’t know, why people believed she lied but that she couldn’t have been lying to begin with, if you would, about my father — I do not know. People aren’t always that aware of themselves.
I couldn’t believe this guru, this Hollywood guy? Like I needed this? He offended me as a rich person, and I have never spoken like that before in my life—this guy so cozy in his Bel Air abode, his sisters. He offended me as a man who wanted to wave his dick around for my benefit. And what was he thinking?
Anyway, I have to take a breather. I’m posting videos of my open mics — I sold everything, I got rid of everything, so I have nothing. The clothes I have don’t fit, meaning, they aren’t who I am, but everyone always compliments them because they’re clearly well-made. Nice color. Suede.
Not right for stand up, not unless I’m going to make a point — which I probably will — who am I now? In a pirate shirt? And Joseph’s technicolor dreamcoat? Can I come from this story? Opening VOGUE. I have to get there. We build over time. “how was I supposed to ACT????” Hopefully Julian Spooner will be available to act ABSURD to Amaramente. Yeah, I’m fine, totally fine — NO, IMPOSSIBLE.
“I’m a wreck…”
Julian Spooner is going to retract, “how nice, gotta go…”
Unreal. When it became real, it became unreal. But when it was unreal, it was real. And Julian Spooner will hold a punching bag, he will toss me a foam bat, and he will, covered in mats, take it. We will Mortal Kombat battle. I was ao angry.
Julian Spooner won’t know what to say to that.
Anyway, I don’t know what to wear right now, and I can’t run off and buy a new wardrobe. So I’m trying to plan it out, as I don’t have a lot of money right now. And I didn’t need a Hollywood DICK, and I’m like…to Amararente, Renato Carosone, picturing Julian Spooner (a man Barbara Harris would have been attracted to from what I’m feeling) raising his arm and pointer finger as this guru did in Beverly Hills.
Acting like a guru this guy, “you don’t have to MANAGE it, MANAGE the shift in reality…” this guy with millions of dollars.
So now, I’m looking at myself now, and deciding what to do style wise. I’m much more attractive than these videos show me to be, but I’m coming back from the dead practically, and I have to improve my set-up, fluff out my hair, just update.
Unfortunately, my former closest friend was so wrapped up in my style, which is annoying, like I didn’t need someone else attached to my identity, I sometimes can’t think. I keep asking him to leave like Jeffrey Allen said, and keep tuning into Dave Chappelle on the psycho spiritual plane, as my dream, if you must know, is to reach him, in some capacity.
And I hope I’ll be able to look back and say…
Oh? You think you’re psychic? Well guess who’s MORE psychic? Dave Chappelle. Hear my words. I hope I am right.
So meditating on Dave Chappelle on the floor of a restaurant, I thought, THINK LADERA HEIGHTS. “This is where you’re ACTUALLY FROM, not ITALY.” And how hilarious is that? Dr. J was in Ladera Heights, I can’t always explain WHY I feel like that’s significant. But the whitest woman the world has ever seen was in the kingdom of Magic Johnson. It’s important, that’s all I know.
Sure, I have roots… looking around Ladera Heights, with tennis courts, shaking my head. Jesus, some hilarious reversal of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. “I’ll tell you how I became the princess,” as someone who sort of looks like one, “of Ladera Heights.”
And listen to this.
When I got back from Miracle Mile, AKA the sex scandal, I stumbled out of my room one night because there was weird energy, but just INSERT Dave Chappelle — he’s going to REMIND me that my mother was Dr. J. He’s going to SAGE the house, fumigate it, no problem. Move. I said to my father, please, let’s move, Jesus.
In any case, I said, knowing it was common for a child to do this, that there was something in my room… it felt like an irrational fear, as I was a mini-psychologist at the time. However, I couldn’t help that I felt that way. He laughed, which confirmed that kids say that, and he said no. But the feeling didn’t go away. So I asked him, did something happen in my room, then? “Well someone was raped in your room.” No hesitation. Now, a hypnotherapist said, “that’s the dementia.”
They say all sorts of crazy shit.
Okay, sure, but I was already in a sex scandal, and he showed me how the assailant entered, that the housekeeper of the former owners was raped, in my room, and I was confused. They never found the guy. And what am I supposed to do with that? My parents, who lived at the end of this row, moved in after that. That’s what he said. Do I call up the association? Just to make sure? That it was the dementia he didn’t have?
I’m telling you. These freaks. That is all for now.
I’m speaking to the sexual trauma specialist tomorrow at 9 AM. So I’ll spend some time, this hour, just asking him questions about what the body of that is, since he said, “yeah people describe things in this range…” That’s fine.
I’m mostly just accepted where I’m at. What else are you going to do? I’m working on a piece for EPIC, I’m working on a piece about Barbara Harris, so I hope to have that done soon, though I find setting a deadline a little hard, because these pieces are taking time, but I basically figured out the first 1/3 of BH at AJs, Supermarket, important. Currently, as she’s haunting/helping me — she’s hovering in my mind on a stage in a absolutely stunning white showgirl number, sparkling in midnight blue lighting, with lush feathers spouting out of her head.
It’s called Mental Health the Musical. That’s my latest idea.
We’ll do a Jeopardy game where doctors sort of guess — diagnoses… and according to TIME, we have more diagnoses than EVER—a good sign. So, let’s whip it all out, and sing arias.
The good thing, I’m basically over my discomfort with being public about that story, it’s not MY story, it’s something that happened to me. At least, I’ve cracked through the initial block of stone it was, just the sentence itself…and now I’m venturing into storytelling mode.
I think, more so than anything, comedy was the most accessible avenue to perform again. I know there’s an industry night. I might not be there yet, but I will go to industry night, and keep figuring it out… as acting going to take a second, I think, so I just need to sign up for an acting class and get back into it.
I feel very positive though, I feel very supported by — the future, even. So I keep going. But I did go on a roller coaster ride, these last three months, going on four, in stepping out on stage, and also posting on social media — which is just a platform.
It’s a public platform.
If my friends USE it or NOT in that way, I don’t judge them for it, because, in a sense, why use it, for personal use? Just because this shit, sorry, takes time. But everyone and their mother is on social media, so I’m figuring out how to use it, and you get better as you go — classic rule. You’re never really prepared, you know? You ride that wave, slightly uncomfortable, because it keeps you on your toes.
I was exhausted at the ACID GREEN jacket night — a coat I’m keeping because it’s so Joker’s Daughter, I think, or something, and I’m trying to find an identity. One that isn’t at all attached to anybody else. It’s going well, so that’s my gameplan.
After this week, I should be in a better flow financially. I just have to take it step by step. So I’m going to just adjust my basic set up. I’m going to try a look, I don’t know what to do with my hair, yet. I wanted to grow it out, big, and I had hair problems over these past few years, so I’ll be honing in… just freshening up.
I have a sense of what I’d like to do — and it’s funny, I think I’m supposed to get fake boobs, lol, kidding. I’m supposed to play up my whiteness, my fairness, wear neutrals, I think, and make my features darker, something, slicked back hair.
I do not know what to say. I can’t get there quite yet. But I’ll get there.
All I can do, personally, is get better. I gotta get into a rehearsal room. I have to unleash my voice, look at myself, and begin — as I said — just working on timing, and all that, but I’m going to keep going to this later mic, and just work on talking to people about it… because I need to break out of the objective of being funny, so I can work out the ideas — because, probably, I’ll find ways of being funny, not trying to be, as I noticed that about myself. A comic said, “you’re naturally funny…”
Some people have the craft, which I can learn, but I’m naturally funny so I’m trying to get there. I just need to be hotter now. I just had a terrible experience… truly. Like, “he likes you,” okay, um, is that how people who like YOU act?
My dream? Monica Bellucci. We’re in Zoolander. We are emerging from the shadows. I might look like Willa Wonka but Italian. I’m dancing around Monica Bellucci on the way… I’m opening DOORS for Monica, I’m LISTENING to people, with Monica Bellucci, so “what do you need to talk about?” She knows most things.
It’s a mic drop. Give me the cash, give me the keys, give me the codes. And Monica Bellucci and I will scale down on rope… to get to the SWISS banks — upon sight of her, everyone will just open vaults. No effort required. We’re walking into the White House… doing dances down the hall, I am. I’m trumpeting her arrival… with a boombox. Or at least, a portable speaker. Make way for Prince Ali, thank you, Barbara Harris the genie.
I’m telling you, was I Monica Bellucci? I mean in terms of EVERYONE AND EVERYONE being in love with me? My friend was a little overboard. And I’m becoming PSYCHIC because people are in love with me — I’m confused. Help, Monica Bellucci, help. We will take over the world. Change the world. The point will be made. Okay? At a restaurant with Monica Bellucci after the easiest bank robbery — we’re in broad daylight, shaking our heads at idiots. Just the idiocy of the idea, no? Anyway, one can dream. We’re looking at photos of fashion… Zoolander.
“We must beware of him.”
“Remember me.”
Monicac Bellucci knows — if you offend a Neapolitan, they might succeed.