Dear Diablo

Dear Diablo Cody, 

I just watched Paradise, and I need to apologize. I haven't been fair. I've been jealous and petty and hoping that your success was a fluke because I wished I had the courage and tenacity to get my stuff out there the way you have. 

I liked Juno (everyone liked Juno), but I crossed my arms across my chest after your star blew up because I thought it should be ME sitting next to Jay and Dave, talking about my dysfunctional upbringing and artistic salvation through humor and words. 

Bitches be crazy, what can I say? 

You, Jenji Kohan, and Callie Khourie are contemporary writers I admire and envy. Yeah, yeah, yeah—we should think of ourselves as writers, not female writers. Bullshit. Everything's different for women. 

We have to work twice as hard as men for a good 15-20 percent less and show no emotion. We have to shove all critical opinion of our male superiors so far down our throats we teeter into VIVID award territory. 

We're supposed to get up every day and do all of this (while looking pretty) and NOT go crazy? 

I'm going crazy. I fully admit it. It used to be "I can't drive over bridges." Then it became "...or highways." Now I have panic attacks every single morning on my way to work. Sometimes I have to pull over for twenty minutes to (a) stop crying from the depression and fear and anger that this is happening to me, and then (b) find the courage to climb back into the Death Star trash compactor of traffic that's one crass commuter away from blood-soaked anarchy and make it through an endless stream of red lights without passing out from the adrenaline surge of terror that consumes my entire mental and physical being. 

There are no safe medications at this time (that I can take while driving). My only two choices are join a convent or get on with it. 

It's not about cars or driving or traffic. It's about isolation. It's about loneliness. 

It's about fear of insignificance. 


I'm not talking about being famous. I've watched a great number of nice, brilliant people lose skin and teeth from fame. I'm talking about relevance. Leaving something behind. It could be a novel, it could be $5 in a charity cup at Starbucks. It's all proportional based on your dreams. 


But dreaming leads to fear, which leads to exhaustion, which leads to procrastination, which leads to more fear. 

Which, apparently, leads to paralysis. Which is where I've been the past two weeks, battling a John Philip Sousa crescendo of anxiety attacks, coupled with a feverish flu. When you haven't had the flu in a few years you forget how morose it is. 

Thursday night I cried while watching a Rhoda rerun where Rhoda and Joe were breaking up. I don't mean I teared-up—I sobbed. 

When I made it to quitting time yesterday, I drove home, stocked the fridge with comfort food (who knew Kraft now has both veggie and organic macaroni & cheese?), and planned to spend the entire weekend on the couch, kicking the infection. 

Malcolm woke me up at 6am today because he's a cat and cats aren't emotionally equipped to distribute compassion. I fed him, couldn't sleep, made breakfast and scanned Amazon Prime for new releases. 

And there, Diablo, was Paradise. Did I primarily choose to spend $9.99 on your film because Russell Brand was in it? Of course. But if the trailer had shown him dancing around Las Vegas with a Capuchin monkey on his head while he and Octavia Spencer dueted to a Ke$ha version of "With A Little Help From My Friends," I likely would have passed. 

I watched it because I knew—the same way you know how melted butter on a baked potato will taste—that it was going to be the movie I needed to see right now, this week and this day, to make me feel better. 

And it was. It reminded me to get back on the damn bike, drink some freaking spinach juice and B-complex and quit my bitching. Having the flu sucks. Panic attacks are scary. Orlando is hot hellhole full of churches and twits. Blah, blah...

Life's too short to stay curled up on the couch. So I got a little bit burned. And I'm afraid to let the world see me this way because I'm afraid they'll feel uncomfortable.

You know what? I no longer care. I'm tired of hiding away because I might be crazy. I'm a nice person and I try to be good to people who deserve it. I might not be able to drive a car, but I can still make people laugh when they feel sad. And listen when they need to talk. And feed the feral (crazy) cats who wait outside my door every morning because they know I offer safety and nourishment. 

And I can still type.

I"d rather be weird than boring. And I'd rather feel things intensely (even fear) than go through life as a Saltine, floating in a room temperature sea of lumpy instant soup.

Diablo Cody, thank you for reminding me of this. And for writing and directing a movie that's beautiful, hilarious, and original (be careful, that last part might get you thrown out of Hollywood).

And for doing it all while being a human woman in this world. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish hanging aluminum foil around the exterior of my apartment to keep the CIA and aliens from reading my thoughts.