Fear and Loathing in Los Angeles...

Fucking ellipses...

Happy daylight savings time to all, here and abroad. What does it mean? I'll tell you what it means. It means I have an hour to write to you before my regularly scheduled bedtime of 5am-ish. It's only 4 right now and until I'm used to it, I can kick back and enjoy the fall back in time. I don't like to diary-blog. It's boring, so I hardly ever do it. My brain moves faster then my fingers and I tend to just kind of toss my thoughts in a lumpy pile. That's an odd confession for a self-proclaimed writer, isn't it? To admit the fact that I don't write that often is sad, but I don't. Anymore. I remember a time when I would stay up all night perving around in the lizard brain like a scavenger in a junk yard, picking things from dirty piles and rearranging them to suit my needs. To decorate my cardboard box, or whatever project I happened to be working on at the moment, but not anymore. I dread The Stack, you see.

Under my broken TV with the disconnected cable box, behind the pile of random DVDs, and give-away CDs, a hole punch, and a ceramic cat, lies "The Stack". It's a wretched collection of pages about 20 inches in height. It is, give or take, everything I have ever written. I can't honestly say it's collecting dust, because dust doesn't really get back there. It's beyond the reach of dust, in a kind of vacuum.

I was at Target today PMSing my tits off. My body was coursing with organic chemicals, nasty, malevolent, baby making chemicals, that had me in the toy isle pawing at little girls Halloween costumes and holding back tears at the thought of my wasted eggs. May wasted chances to spawn and breed something that would look cute dressed as Snow White. I was a salmon, all of a sudden, fighting my way up stream. Past an isle of Transformers to the dreaded Barbie Dolls. I stood glass-eyed staring at their painted faces hermetically sealed behind plastic in their pretty dresses and thought to myself -- Fuck. Dust. Dust can't in. And then -- it's as if I were fisted in the uterus by the lubed up hand of fate. Something about action and character hit me all of a sudden. And how actions strung together make up character. What a sap I had been. Afraid of a stack? Bah! I needed to DO something.

I high tailed it to the electronics section an asked a borderline comatose sales clerk to point me in the direction of the vacuum sealers. After a series of confusing dead ends, and a bottle of shoplifted children's Triaminic in grape flavor to dull the edges, I was in the housewares section loading the very last vacuum sealer into my cart. It was made to seal meats and things for freezing, which conjured images I like -- one of my favorite words is "bounty" followed shortly by "pantry". It also reminded me that it was time to defrost my own freezer. As I skipped to the checkout I tried to remember what exactly was frozen in the block of ice hovering above my fridge. Maybe I could compose a 140 character pun about it on the ride home to post on Twitter, maybe. But for now I had more important fish to fry and when I was done with my new project the fridge itself might not even be necessary. So I got in the car and drove home.

I opened the fridge. I wanted the melted ice of the freezer to drip onto the floor and ruin things. I wanted to cook up the Trader Joe's vegetarian ribs that I knew were in there and see how they tasted after a year frozen in ice. But first I wanted to hermetically seal The Stack section by section and sail them one by one down the LA river.

It took me a while to figure out how to use the sealer, but once I got the hang of it the whole process was a breeze. I sealed whole feature scripts, nine of them. Ten short stories at a time. Plays in twos. Novels, in threes and fours. I went through drawers to make sure I wasn't missing anything, letters, postcards. I even sealed some books that I had made copious notes in, just so I wouldn't miss a word. And when I was done, I looked at them, all laid out on the bed, suffocating. They didn't put up much of a fight. They died the way they had lived, neglected, ignored. By the world? Maybe. By me? Definitely. My children, my babies. Created in a moment of passion, pooped out like dumpster babies at the prom, and stored away in the basement by a cruel mother suffering from Munchhausen's Bi-proxy. For a second I wanted to rip them open, to try and save them, but my second screenplay, The Parlor, being about suicide, had sputtered out early and I didn't think it fair to save some and not others. No, this was genocide on a pan-genre level. I ate the rubbery veggie rib while they all glared at me from under plastic with their contemptuous fonts. "The world won't miss you," I drooled through my tears, two-year-old barbecue sauce drying on my chin like blood. Fucking cannibal.

I cleaned up and decided to catch a movie. The Laemmle in Pasadena was playing a film that starred an ex-lover of mine. "A REAL movie," I told the plastic sheathed corpses as I stuffed them into my trunk alongside a sweaty yoga mat, some laundry bags, and -- fuck! Three copies of Code 98, my stage play about a post-apocalyptic whore house. I went back inside to fire up the sealer one more time...

Twenty minutes later I was standing on the Pasadena bridge flinging them into the inky darkness of the LA River. Plop. Plop. Plop...

The movie was lack lustre. My dead babies were so much better, I thought as I erased my hard drive, killed my e-mail accounts, and uninstalled Final Draft. It's all gone now and I feel, somehow, lighter. Anyways, that's my hour. Over an hour really. Wow, when I get started, let me tell you! I'm gonna have a cigarette now and go to sleep when I wake up I was thinking of getting rid of some more of my stuff starting with the refrigerator. I'll Twitter about it so you guys know what's up! Good night!!

xo,
Adria