The Toybox Killer Strikes Again

Film Stars I Have Been Told I Resemble

- Marilyn Monroe (strangers on the street)
-Lauren Bacall (a policewoman)
-Rita Hayworth (an old man in an elevator)
-Betty Grable (my friend Cassandra, my father, an old man on the street)
-Greta Garbo (an old man at a bar)
-Joan Crawford (my mother, strangers on the street)
-Elizabeth Taylor (my father)
-Mae West (my boyfriend)
-Ava Gardner (an old man on the train)
-Olivia de Haviland (an old man in Walgreens)
-Carrie Fisher (a client)
-Geena Davis (a man on the bus)
-Judy Garland (a woman on the train, strangers on the street)

The only conclusion I can draw from this is that I look nothing like any of these women, and am just an exquisite corpse of lady-features.

Insecurity

I worry constantly about my writing ability. It’s all so raw and organic and I don’t really know where it comes from. For me, writing is almost like another bodily function, it happens because it must, not necessarily because I want it to or because it’s good or convenient. I write a lot of garbage, just because I don’t know how to let my thoughts sit at the bottom of my brain, disintegrating like spoiled food in an overcrowded sink. I want so badly to be able to explain my world, especially the one inside of my head, to tell everyone not only that I am alive, but how I live. It’s extremely self involved, but I can’t help it. I am a vain, insecure little girl, I always have been. That’s what happens when people’s go-to compliment is “you’re so pretty” for your whole life. Thanks, I know I’m pretty, can we talk about what’s inside that lovely, symmetrical skull of mine? That’s why I have to write, because people so often forget I have a voice.
Drawing used to be as necessary as writing is. I couldn’t help but to draw. And then gradually I stopped needing to draw and started needing to write more and more.
I’m afraid I won’t need to write one day, and then what will I do? I am not good at speaking. I am afraid of the nakedness that comes with pouring my heart out through my mouth. When I have important things to say, I write letters or emails when most people would pick up a telephone or wait for a face-to-face meeting. I need to write things. I need the intimate anonymity of words on a page where people don’t know what my face looks like and just listen to what I have to say.
I don’t think anyone who doesn’t know me would ever take me seriously again if I stopped being able to write.