I had to take off work this weekend. My 5 AM job, my night job, my lack of a job is really starting to get to me. I was feeling terrible, sick, just spiraling. I needed to sleep, I needed to think.
I ended up having a hard time later in life because I acted like an idiot in my youth. And, it bothers me, when people try to PAT PAT me with padding, like stop. I understand my attitude has to evolve, it’s not going to help me move forward, but I came to a rude awakening. Leave me alone. You can’t relate. It pissed me off, like, okay, I understand, today, everyone wants to relate, but the friends I have cannot relate to me so don’t put me in some mythic framework. I understand that people’s lives begin and end, that people come from all sorts of backgrounds. What I’m saying IS — my parents were mentally ill, YOURS? Can you relate? Then stop acting like you can. I do not know if I was abused by my parents, now stop.
I’m the type of person that “the celebrities” might even listen to…because I came from a particular life experience. I’m trying to build up the courage to try and step out onto a comedy stage, again. “And then he said, this Hollywood screenwriter, I DID IT BABE I DID IT I MADE IT, now let me SHIT all over you with my wisdom” when I did not ASK for it. Jesus, I’m looking at George Clooney on the psycho spiritual plane, on the sly, of course, as I became the most psychic person in the universe… so I can telepathically communicate with Clooney. You see? The logic? Clooney would, I think: I was in a SEX scandal when I was FOUR, and around the 30 year mark, I became PSYCHIC.
And the MAGIC lovers, the people who LOVE magic, you see, will look and go, wait what? It’s — a “trajectory,” yes. Psychology. Surprise. I was from ANOTHER WORLD no? And then, I literally become surrounded by people who actually believe in other worlds. It’s like the ALIENS. “Sure, they exist,” nodding, “for the LOVE OF CHRIST I do not have A PROBLEM WITH IT.” The aliens exist, fuck off. They’re hanging at Clooney’s house, watching him on press tour with Amal Clooney…
I’m looking at clips of Clooney on tour, right now, for Jay Kelly, wondering, do you act like this Hollywood genius? Another one. I’m picturing Amal Clooney, who is, isn’t she? Isn’t she ridiculously smart? I picture her shaking her head. I want to make a video of me, at OXFORD, my face popping up behind a bush as she’s just trying to get to class — “do do do do,” I have my own action theme music. I’m jumping over bushes in a tuck jump (a spring board behind the bush for extra height). I’m rolling across the grass, battling invisible forces while she’s…walking to class. I can be somebody. I can write a book, Amal Clooney. Be a writer.
Backflip. Slow motion.
About this screenwriter I met, who I call “the guru,” as that’s how he acted. I saw this poster for a TV show about cults on the subway, and I grained away, because if I wrote a story about a cult, I would cast him as a cult leader. He would make a GREAT, with the emotional emphasis of Barbara Harris, cult leader. A channeler. He’s not going to say that, though, he’s going to keep his beliefs quiet, publicly, but, sigh, not with me. I’m not INTO “the world isn’t ready for how it really works.”
Look, exhausted, I’m opening up the DOOR to NASA… Matt Damon is there, throwing both fists into the air. “YES,” he’s clapping because they REPROGRAMMED Voyager 1 from a billion miles away. He’s going to show me the interactive map of the solar system, “cool, right?” With comets flying around. He’s going to explain, with mechanical hands, how they ricocheted Rosetta across the known universe. It was, hilarious to me, because SPACE isn’t that CRAZY. They have to BEAM a message to this spaceship a billion miles away, they have to FIGURE OUT how to get Rosetta around Jupiter, using the gravitational forces… to spin her faster…
Like, are we going to be able to find the magic zipper somewhere around Saturn, where we’ll be able to HYPER SPEED through the universe? I don’t know. It’s a bit too much. “Consciousness is the technology…” huh. It just is. Ths guru was playing a video game, where his consciousness is really a computer (That’s your brain) with wires plugged into “reality,” as a mothership board, Dave Chappelle the OPERATOR.
“YES HELLO?” He’s over this. “It’s called A SHRINK,” that’s who he’s connecting this guy to. “Just a moment please.”
To me, Dave Chappelle IS SUPERDAD. That’s the movie I’m writing for him. That’s who he is to me. Enough with the people who do not understand him. Super-Dad. He can throw his palm out, convincingly as well, and SHOOT CARE through all this. Please, please do. I could have died.
The guru haunts me, he does, but it gets better, it’s only in the mornings and evenings… where I’m look around the real world, like I really came from Wonderland, you see, I really did. I don’t know what makes me special, I don’t know why this was at all important, how this was going to help me directionally? I was a special person? Well, it’s time for really really blunt talk, that didn’t bring me NICE people. Real love.
That was dicey. Telling my Black manager. I’m telling you. In a fucking server outfit, when I didn’t need to be here. I could MEDITATE my way to success. Imagine? I met THIS person. And this guy, Danil? A guy who’s been managing a restaurant for ten years, that’s it, he’s in a better position than me, at 42. Not special, just sexual. This guy has strong sexual energy… it was a bit destabilizing in the beginning, not because there’s attraction, but he’s a flirt, he has energy… he’s a nice guy.
I feel like the guru was sent to me because I was cursed or something. I don’t know what to say, because Tina Turner was in a terrible relationship and she just turned the page— go. I’m having a hard time, not exactly turning the page, but I didn’t have a strong career path or talent already, like she was a singer. She always was. What she did was amazing, impressive, to be admired and commended, because everyone thought she was done, and she — whacked it out of the park. Home run. “We don’t need another HERO.” Thinking about the UNREAL amount of MEANINGFUL posts that are on INSTAGRAM.
That’s my anthem. Just her album. I’ve relied on her. Relied on her music. “What’s LOVE got to DO got to DO with it?” I say that across the board. It’s to…everyone… in my family. “What’s LOVE got to DO with it?”
This guru, while I was pulling away from him, which took TIME, it’s not that he ever called me of course, and I’m running in the opposite direction, he sent me, not a hello, but a video of Hopkins talking about condensing time: delete.
I’m looking at George Clooney on my feed. He’s not talking like that. He’s a very real person. “You spent your twenties chasing after a career,” he said, with his arms crossed, okay? He’s just a guy. He’s older now, he feels he has some wisdom to share because he’s on tour, and he’s had a career. “If you’re smart, you try and balance life and relationships,” because further down the line, that’s really what matters. He has friends who didn’t do that, so they’ve struggled with that as they’ve gotten older.
Well, guess what? I’m struggling with the WHOLE package. Didn’t chase a career, nodding at myself, because I have NO IDEA who the fuck that even was. I’m talking about ME. What am I doing? You see IN REALITY, I’ve worked in restaurants, and I’m minorly wrote, without direction… and I’m looking at my co-workers right now, going, “whoa.” I had no idea what I was doing.
Can you imagine? “I moved to France,” and listen to this, “with 500k,” as my inheritance. What the fuck are you doing? This old professor I got involved with, he believed I could marry a Duke? Like, as a woman, I could aspire to that? It’s so sad. I was heartbroken, you don’t even know. I wanted to, “yes,” a mother, as I had to BECOME one, “live an experiential life,” except GUESS WHAT? I didn’t even DO THAT.
Honestly, I only HOLD this part of myself, my younger self. I started to disappear in college. That’s it. Hannah Arendt was my best friend, and she still is.
But then, none of the friends I knew from college, with a couple exceptions, chased after a career AT ALL. I was shocked to find that I was them. I was against ambition, hierarchy, I’m so tired I can’t continue. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in myself exactly. Personally? I was told I was a piece of SHIT when I was four. And YOU?
I hated the world, and its pompous bullshit, and the hilarious turn of events was—THAT’S EXACTLY WHO I MET. DICKS. Who wanted to “help me…” you know? George Clooney would go, I’m pretty sure, “why do you need help?” Doing WHAT? Being a writer? I mean, just ridiculous. “Manifesting reality?” Generally basking in the GENIUS of this guy who lives at the Carlyle? Unreal.
Anyway, I’m not going to waste my time today, but I was utterly destroyed, left for dead with old friends not knowing what to do… so it was like, I needed a real hand, and there was no one there. I mean, like a REAL HAND, the HAND. Here, I got you.
“I was in sex scandal when I was FOUR,” little FOUR fingers, you see? To JLo’s in Let’s Get Loud. That’s Angelica Leibowitz. I found it, last night, the SONG. The average American doesn’t understand what a Brazilian mother means. It’s Jennifer Lopez: Let’s GET LOUD. This is the woman who came over to my HOUSE — this was the song of the sex scandal over a four year old. Nothing but dance parties morning, noon, and night.
Brazilian and Jewish. “This was the song of the sex scandal.”
I’m struggling to find a job, literally, because there was no CAREER in what I was doing — you know? Now, I write for a Science Mag, end of life mag, nothing came of this. And I shuttered, I did, when the guru LIKED my post about it, like DELETE him fast. He pitied me, he felt for me, and he wasn’t self-aware enough to understand what he was DOING. He told me, indirectly, without any heart and soul that I wasn’t FED as a child? PLEASE. He was a demon.
I have to keep on figuring out my exit, I am 40, working in a restaurant. I’m going to spend my time reading for a while, and the FEELING that there’s a way, it’s just… a useless entreprise. There is, it’s true, but I gotta spring into action here. I’m going to read for a while because I find writing really really hard. I don’t think Clooney would add MORE weight to me, like, “why are you telling yourself that?” I think he would say, “maybe it’s not for you?” I’m contending with failure, but in a way that made me feel like a joke. But, it’s fine, I need to read and figure out what I like to read… what I might like to write about.
Fuck family. Fuck my family story.
Like, okay, guru, I was pretty, but my manager last night, a manager of a bar of ten years, he’s going — get dressed up, come and sit there, it’s not that I’m not pretty, he said I was. He’s not calling me the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. I’m just saying. It’s not even that I’m not beautiful, but WHAT I attracted made me feel so unattractive. For sure, I could have been an entertainer, or something. BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I DID. And could I have been an entertainer? Because I sang and dance inside a house? It’s like, ugh, I was so stuck. Really stuck for the majority of my life.
And now, I have no money, I live in a room somewhere, and I did not want this, not at all. I wasn’t thinking. I was listening to a man who told me to SPEND my IRA money because I could meditate the money into existence. “It takes care of itself.” Imagine? Clooney hearing this. “It doesn’t matter,” I picture his face, “what the rent is…” Nodding at that, because, “meditate,” he said, “on having so much money you can’t close the closet door.” Uh huh. “You fell for this?” I mean, I have to imagine he’d ask me that, like, “come on, Maria.” And the thing is, “I KNOW.” NOW. I was blown away.
You know? If Clooney gave each of his friends a MILL, this son of a bitch could give me the same for fucking ruining my life. That’s my perspective. Honestly. His ideology ruined me, and I came from a background, you see, and unfortunately, I didn’t exactly see it. Now cut the SAPPY girl music, or whatever this is, this weird narrative I can’t EVEN identify like, do women cue violins? I don’t know what this is. I am not from this world. I do not understand why WOMEN would want their fathers, EW Freud, GROSS. YUCK. Oh my God. No no no. I don’t know understand what the problem with a woman who has actually been through shit…is. I’ve been through, graining away, using my psychic sense here, some real shit. Now, BOOM— Samuel L Jackson, I call him to the forefront of the psychospiritual plane.
“Shut the fuck up.” Fast. Let’s NOT RUN OFF with CURLY SWIRLY TAILS into the universe taking that statement to new heights when I am ON THE GROUND. Next to Samuel L Jackson. Relax. I’m not saying I went through the realest shit, I’m not saying… ANYTHING. What I’m saying is that, it was a REAL JOURNEY to get here. You see? It’s very simple. Let’s not get inventive. Just to SAY THAT.
“I was in a sex scandal when I was four…”
Standing next to…some other little girl…in a living room… as my mother RAN IN like a lunatic to ignore me in some aria to fawn all over this woman’s daughter, and her mother is thinking, “is she doing this because her father is molesting her?” Sex scandal. She was paid to protect me. You see? It’s when I woke up to this moment — turning to this other little girl standing next to me. “We’re stationed side by side?” Uh oh. Sex scandal.
That’s Dave Chappelle. “I’m standing next to a GIRL…” in a set up.
Maybe it’s a funny sex scandal, and so, there is use in it. It was a sex scandal rated PG, I THINK. I might not be able to KNOW the rating because I was pre-rating, generally unaware, though I knew what rape was, as a four year old. I thought my mother had been raped, younger than my age? Just based on how she acted with me… scary. She was a scary scary lady, and it was Dave Chappelle who gave me the courage to call her what she was: scary. When he said “scary,” a squeamish four year old inside of me felt it. “He’s super dad,” I thought at that age. He’s going to — SEE Dr. J, I assure you, from far far away. I was pretty sure. If HE were to SEE Dr. J, even a photo of her today, he would be shocked. That’s not how my friends responded. He’d go, “oh my God.” He’d get on stage, maybe even address this. “Did you see this photo?”
“Damn.”
“Is that real?”
Gasp. “Oh my God, it’s a real witch…” he’s seeing THAT. I pictured tossing photo after photo. “Tell me what you think of this…” I pictured sending Dave Chappelle into the Carlyle Hotel. “Let me know who you notice, if you notice anyone…remarkable…”
“I saw a slytherin?” He’s seeing it. “That man looks like a slytherin.” We would be able to discuss it. “That’s him.” Not the guru, something else, another fairyland creature, for sure, and Dave Chappelle would be the one to see the truth of it.
I felt it, I did. I’m Dr. J’s daughter. I would have tugged on his pants, as a four year old, and he would have HEARD ME. I believe that, I do. “Her name is Dr. J.”
That’s all he’d need to know. Super hero.
Anyway, I had a rough weekend, as I felt SO knocked down. I can’t even go into it, this man telling me to SPIN up energy, “can you handle it?” I mean, it was insane. Again, Amal Clooney is… opening her briefcase, I’m pretty sure, taking out papers… stacking them. Just real shit. She’s approaching a microphone in a courtroom… she’s… not spinning up energy. Some of this stuff, you guys, I’m sorry it’s a bit too crazy. If you were extremely lucky in your life, congratulations. You know? I do not care. If you grew up in fortunate circumstances, congratulations. That’s not where I am from.
But I got pegged as lucky, imagine? Because I didn’t go to foster care. Because these families helped me? I needed to reframe my whole life. “It’s not that all these families went above the call of duty to save me?” No. Fuck you Angelica Leibowitz with Let’s Get Loud. Jennifer Lopez and I dancing in my dreams… fuck you. This woman presented herself as a savior? Getting paid 11k a month in value? Fuck you. Major, “you fucked up my life.” You did that to a FOUR YEAR OLD, and WHY? Dunno! Nightmare.
And then, there’s Frederick Douglass, as I’ve read his biography, some of it. He is born in slavery, okay? A strict difference. And this is what…happened to him…this is what he was able to do… so, look, looking back at my life, that wasn’t who I was. I didn’t overcome all odds, literally.
So in terms of me, “slow clap,” being…well-adjusted? That’s so puzzling to you? The guru thought, “why not FUCK HER UP.” And the thing is, I was lucky in ONE regard: I inherited some money, and NOBODY saw it. I mean, no one BENIGN. For real. Like you don’t have a trust fund, obviously, so what if you have nice clothes, ever GO TO A RESTAURANT? I mean SEE a server on their NIGHT OFF?
I would love to get lucky, really, I was thinking about Matt Damon, because he always felt lucky. You know, I felt that way too, you know. I really did. But holy shit, I was not lucky, in the end, at all. I had money in the bank, and none of these people saw it, these men only saw me for what I did not have….just like everyone else.
And so, at 40, I felt like, man, I wish I had someone who did this to me at 17. Like, “I got you,” okay? We’ll talk on Saturdays. “You gotta GET through this part, just listen to me.”
“You gotta FIGURE LIFE out.”
“And don’t listen to bullshit, just, you gotta figure out what works for you…”
“And beware, literally, of WHO you hang out with, take a REAL look around.”
You understand? “You’re not alone,” but you’re going to have to figure it out. Like this 2nd mother of mine, she’s handing me cash, buying me presents, like how the fuck is this supposed to help me bitch? You wanna play a sentimental game? And this is where, I go, “listen white lady.” I have those sides, I do. Time to put away the Kenny G. No offense.
I have these moments.
My Mexican mother? Unconscious gears. She’s been mothering since she’s been 7. She can’t let it go. And already, I feel like I’m a better psychologist than hers. If you catch my drift. I’m wondering if this was my true talent. I’m saying that to her — after A LOT OF THOUGHT AND CONSIDERATION. Not at HELLO. NO.
Anyway, I was in a sex scandal. This Brazilian mother CHOSE to be there, complications ASIDE. My mother said my father was abusive, and GUESS WHAT? He started acting GUILTY. She was in a totally insane situation that necessitated calling child services, necessitated it. I should have been taken OUT of my home, not SENT back with my FATHER. If it was just an illness, if you would, as he was diagnosed later, “okay.” But that MAN, who would keep his fucking illness a secret, even, made my LIFE harder and TOLD ME how much I put him through? Was this son of a bitch in a sex scandal?
Then, this stupid screenwriter, right? Enters the stage as if he were a supreme being… thinking he’s an expert psychologist, imagine? I couldn’t with this guy.
I woke up feeling terrible, truly terrible, terrified, needing these men at work to just tell me — get on this app, sit at this bar, don’t give up. I wasn’t LOOKING for anyone, actively, if you would, in the past. Not understanding what YOUTH IS. I wasn’t exactly getting stopped in the middle of the street, or something, not to say I didn’t have affairs and relationships, but… I had SHIT to work out.
I can tell you, try to tell you a story, about someone who got BLOWN AWAY, left for dead, left for dead by this stupid guru, too, who put an unnecessary amount of PRESSURE ON ME, just a chick. I could ROAR and destroy his house. We can all RISE TO GREATNESS, SURE. I was JUST a fucking pretty girl, apparently! I hate this man with a passion. Anyway, is she dead?
Not is she going to need a minute?
Will she be able to recover?
Yes, of course, I met a man who became a lawyer in his 50s… sort of going, I met the strangest people in this so-called artistic “milieus.” Because of it, I want to RUN in the opposite direction. I want NOTHING to do with an occupation that TOUCHES fame or GREATNESS is ANY FUCKING WAY. It’s a big big fuck you to this guy. This Hollywood screenwriter. I can still meet someone, it’s not the same for a woman, as it is for a man, I mean, I’m not JLo. Not like I COULDN’T BECOME JLO, but like, be real a second. So I struggle with HOW to move forward.
Was I singer, like Tina Turner was? No.
What exactly was I GREAT AT? Ugh, my head, these Sundays. The guru acted as if he were TEACHING, and is he a teacher? Does he know how to DO that? Alexander the Great. That’s who he thought I was. WHY? Because I came from a fucked up family?
You cannot CHANGE A PERSON! I can’t HELP who it is that I AM. “You COULD be great,” imagine? He wrote this to me on a fucking birthday card. It sounds like a stupid woman, going, “oh if only he…” you can’t change people. WHY did I need to CHANGE?
You just have to picture Barbara Harris as the actress playing me, inherently comical as a premise. But Barbara Harris was AN ACTRESS PERFORMER with an unusual quality, and though I can’t RELATE, meaning, I do not KNOW who this bitch was OFFSTAGE, her transformation was SO EPICALLY unbelievable between one and the other that it was hailed as a GENIUS, literally, within her.
I’m NOT in a context where this is happening. I might have had a QUALITY, for the love of God, that some people recognized as HERS, but THIS DID NOT GET ME ANYWHERE. It ONLY brought me more problems. Am I so innately talented? It’s crazy? AT WHAT? It’s totally 100% crazy how this Hollywood screenwriter RESPONDED to my early years, I’m sorry — cr-azy. And now I gotta deal with all this SELF HATRED because — it was SO obvious—that this guy was BAD NEWS BEARS. I can’t let go that HE thought pointing at me as if I were in a fucking SCI FI, shaking his finger at me, “what do you wanna knowwwww…” was at all appropriate.
“Life is not about what you wanna do,” OUCH, please, hear me, “it’s about what you wanna knowwwwwwwwwwwwwww…..” just because I told him what I was writing about, and it was a sex scandal, in fact.
Okay, so maybe there, I’d say it like Dave Chappelle did. “I studied you in Social Studies.”
If I talk about this onstage. I’ll say it like Dave Chappelle, something. “I know you,” right? “You’re the catepillar in Alice in Wonderland…am I correct?” smoke rings, a chain smoker. An addict. “Yes, Maria, that’s exactly who I am.”
“The catepillar, Alice in Wonderland.” And I’m like, “whoa,” like a baby.
But Dave Chappelle is WORRIED. He’s calling this man CREEPY at meeting ONE.
“This is what we call a creep,” and why I didn’t see that? My mother was a creep. My father was a creep, I’m sorry, that was insane, what my father did, how he reacted to that situation I was in. I couldn’t quite accept what my life experience was: I didn’t want to project it out into the world, and because of that, I BROUGHT THEM IN. Hear me.
So anyway, I appreciate seeing George Clooney out there, because he’s a dose of a real person. I gotta tell you.
So I’m going to read today, as I think I can turn my writing life around… into something that works for real. I just don’t have interests, you see. I gotta read and think, WHERE do I go? WHERE is my audience? Am I writing about coming out of a fucking crazy family, and you see in my case, it was necessary to say fucking crazy.
Forget TAP DANCES with Clooney, one hand on his stomach, one hand out, taking it back in slacks and a fitted t-shirt, old school… “like she was wounded…” or “aw,” this wasn’t a “poor Maria” situation. These dances. These sappy dances… This required outrage. Insane. Fuck mentally ill. I do not feel bad for these people. My parents.
It’s just, it’s not exactly aligned, this word, though it’s not against, either, it just doesn’t apply to me — with this, airy fairy logic. Look, working out my intergenerational trauma, if you would, was hellish experience. It was hell. And it took my life to get here, and I’m struggling with the choices I made, so.
I need to spend time reading and REALLY — not MEDITATING — contending with where I’d like to GO as a writer. Direction is GOOD. Or, I gotta find a beat that I enjoy, and direct myself towards a real job.
With my dreams of entertainment, man, that one, you gotta really — jump in, but of course, my topic isn’t the easiest. I had to take a deep breath, and imagine it? Make a Lovely Bones joke. I tried. “The Lovely Bones is my favorite book,” I said, as someone who was in a sex scandal when I was four. What a weird book. I couldn’t get past the beginning. It was a “no thanks.” It reminded me of Dr. J, a little bit. She would write that book, something. Terrible things can happen to you, it’s really true.
I think about myself now, what I look like. Barbara Harris was CUTE, too, a death wish. A Black man behind me, a flirtatious Black man behind me, someone with strong sexual energy… it’s fine, it’s just there. My manager always looks at you, sort of, like he could make a move. He’s smooth. He’s a nice guy. He’s 42, he said, “I KNOW,” but he’s a MAN. I know girlfriends who met men in their forties. I’m positioning myself that way.
I’m more saying, to my younger self, “this wasn’t easy, was it?” The real world.
He’s ordering me a PANACEA, to heal my wounds.
“UGH, this screenwriter didn’t even want to sleep with me, you understand, not as far as I know, but he’s going to confess his love for me… over a lost I TANYA DVD which is a psychological game I’m playing to disappoint him because my father disappointed me?”
Imagine? Imagine. This is what this man did.
“OUCH,” my male co workers. “Maria, no….” I cried I did. “You met a total weirdo,” and my male friends have been the ones to hold a space for me. I was so shattered by the SHEER concept. THAT’s who I “naturally brought in…” so that hurt me so profoundly that it’s been hard to get up. Fuck my father, fuck if my mother handled me inappropriately sexually, imagine? Just please! THAT GUY was the worst thing that EVER happened to me. And could he be, exhausted, and so would my Black co-worker, “the best thing that ever happened to me…”
“That would be the task…” he’d nod, in his expensive blazer, dark burgundy. A man who cleans up nicely. “I don’t even have clothes…you know?” Like I had to rebuild from the ground up. This guru was a shitty boy at school who acts MEAN to the girl he likes. That’s exactly who that guy was but manaical, or someone who needs the SPACESHIP steering wheel taken out of his way. Someone who needs to be KEPT away from women. I never judged a book by its cover, never, and in my case, that’s really really true. To a fault.
So, I have no idea what I’m good at, I get that talent doesn’t necessarily matter that much? Or something? But I’m starting over so completely… it isn’t easy, but I keep going, I’m not stagnating, I’m more, gliding sometimes on the ice with DANIL, lol, and going, “where next?” This guru, he doesn’t GET IT, he was NOT THERE, this guy. He doesn’t know what it means to be in a relationship, be real. What intimacy is.
CLAP CLAP CLAP. “Let’s GET LOUD.”
I reached crazy. I needed years to clear my head, I had to WRANGLE myself down, because I was a fucking mess, am I psychic? I took a sword, man, a lethal sword, I backed up into GAME OF THRONES as an idea, as this guru was obsessed with the REALITY of the IDEA, and I unleashed Ned Starke upon him — A Lanister, by the way, if you must know. I am a Lanister, not a Starke. I had so many debts… looking up, flipping out in their garden, the father holding space. That’s all this man would do. “A brunette amongst us now. Go ahead, tire yourself out.” I mean, it was MAD, it always was. My mother would have been a legend even in that series. A true mad woman.
I had to GET A GRIP, I am not PSYCHIC, I couldn’t think, move, without being PULLED in directions because I FELT SOMETHING? AM I PICKING UP ON SOMETHING?
I could throw tomatoes at these brothers.
I couldn’t believe I ended up in THESE CIRCLES. Truly speaking. The cultish kind…
And so, in moving forward, now, I’ve need to SIT and evacuate how doing ANYTHING triggered my MIND to EXPLODE in GURU TONES like navigate to the point in the future, find Dave Chappelle, FIND Ben Stiller, FIND… walk three steps, into the library, you will see a meditator with steel blue grey eyes… I wasn’t FAME hungry, I wasn’t obsessed with success (THEREFORE FAILURE, you understand) like that. Climbing trees, like a fucking lunatics, “look! Look! It’s money…”
“Those are leaves…”
I’m telling you.
So I’m better, day by day. The channeler shit, I must admit, and I’m shitting all over it, no offense, I could have died, okay? The channeler shit was sticky… channeling energy… NO. I look back on these Beverly Hills MEN?
“Are you BORED?”
I hope to be able to reach a POINT, assholes, where I can get into a state, sure, and act, or perform a character. I do not want to CHANNEL anything. But sure, I suppose you can take it on, whatever. I just did not need this shit. Channeling the future…
And why everyone is so obsessed with manifesting, I don’t know.
LET’S GET LOUD. That’s my theme song. I see myself — victorious (a joke) — in a Victoria Secret lingerie get-up, waving at you as I step onstage… in the end. This is success. I still look good. It’s Carnival.
That’s what I want. And everyone is applauding.
So I’m off, I need to plan my days off. I gotta get back on the comedy stage, as I think I can do something, but I’m going to have to really go for it. And I gotta move FAST — see if I can properly align this writing pursuit… in a direction that works, for real. I need money, that’s the thing. I don’t make anything as a server, and I don’t want to do it more than 3 days a week, it’s not permanent, it’s just a necessity.
I want to go in there, chill, and these people are my friends, basically, and hang out, meet. I gotta get social. I didn’t need EMOTION. I didn’t need MORE PRESSURE. Ugh, I needed a super realistic person who’s not looking at me like I suffered the greatest tragedy, or something, because — what the fuck was that supposed to do? I needed support, yeah, thinking about what that MEANS. A phone call, every Saturday, when I was young. “How’s it going?”
“I’m about to explode.”
“Well, I guess you better find a new job…” right.
“What do you want to DO?”
My family just kept falling apart… I sort of hate my second surrogate mother… like, um, lady, why are you buying my DORM ROOM? Here’s another thought. “Defer your college for a year.” Move to NYC. Make your own money. You’re going to HAVE to do this regardless. My parents were ILL. CONNECT, GET IN THERE, get yourself a good psychologist, and grab life by the horns. That would be the advice I’d give to myself…
“The dream is not NYU, Maria, the DREAM is to be an actor.”
“If you can’t DO IT,” literally, because who gives a SHIT about the IDEA, you see, this stupid guru was a disgrace, “you gotta pick something else.” That’s really the truth. this second surrogate mother getting all “oh NYU is her dream…” like she would talk like that to HER DAUGHTER, don’t bullshit me. She was full of shit.
As they “always were,” we have our attachments. Exactly. And some of us have to just walk away. You know? So that’s all I have to say about that, to end of Forrest Gump, as I had this vibe, somehow? I was so confused.
“Do you know,” emotionally, my father, too emotionally to NOT be comical. “What I sacrificed for you?” Dude, you’re 70 years old! I’ve only been on earth for 10 years! What the fuck did you sacrifice for me? MONEY? LOOK, DUDE, I was a fucking NINE year old, who didn’t give a SHIT about his issues with the word DUDE. “YOU DECIDED TO HAVE A CHILD,” and I spoke to this lunatic like that. “NOT ME. A CHILD COSTS MONEY,” looking at this idiot. Telling me at NINE to get a job. “I can’t…legally.”
“This isn’t the GREAT DEPRESSION!”
And there he’d go, “you can sure say that again.”
You know? I cannot HELP that a CHILD costs money. And I don’t KNOW exactly what you’re SACRIFICING? My parents were the ROCK BALLAD with orchestra, you know? The symphony with electric guitar. “AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERSSS…” just like the guru was. Theme song. “IT DOESN’T MATTER.”
“It doesn’t MATTER how much the RENT IS.”
That’s him. “Do you KNOW how much I sacrificed?” Nothing, really.
Italians love this song.
“NOTHING ELSE MATTERS…”
Jesus, if I had a DIME for everytime the fucking guru said, “it doesn’t matter,” I would have made up for all I lost.
And the thing is, it’s a classic, but the VIDEO about the MAKING of the song, the self-importance of it — that’s the GURU too. “YOU CREATE YOUR OWN REALITY…” that’s the title, even belittlingly.
Now if it turns out I an CONAN the barbarian IN Raquel WELCH — so be it. I will take a prehistoric futuristic BATON and SWING at you goddammit.
This is my plan, so I’m going to get back on the comedy circuit.