Well, this idea that I’m some uncouth mouthbreather who is just too filthy, filthy, filthy for good company continues to spread. I would be bothered, but I think we all know what happens if just one more conservative women complains about my potty mouth.
Yes indeed, that ought to be enough to bring all those upstanding conservative men (and hell, maybe some of the women) sniffing around my door. Lord knows I love you conservatives, but it is a fact proven over and over again that the thing you’re complaining about the most is usually the thing you’re fucking the hardest, so I’ll stock up on condoms and lube and put on my best commie hippie who’s ruining America face, and we can all have a good time (Shoot, I’m amiable. I’ll even let you curl up on my couch afterwards and cry and feel guilty about what a good for nothing worthless piece of shit you are. Just don’t pester the dog. That’s all I ask.).
Anyway, all that was beside the point. I just thought you’d find it interesting.
I know I told you all I turned my play in. But the chick I turned it in to offered to read it and give me some last minute advice and so I took it and the last final draft is due Friday.
I just rewrote the ending.
What the fuck? Am I a total dumbass or what?
I don’t know if it’s better, but it seems more right.
I’m about dying. I’m past the point of being able to tell if it’s any good.
But what the fuck, right?
If I’m going to be the potty mouthed liberal Hollywood temptress that all the conservatives complain about, I’ve got to have some tangential relationship to art. So, I guess I’m committed to seeing this through.