Dear Willpower,
Paradoxically at the moment I'm procrastinating but  allow me to say a few words before I proceed with my futile busywork. I have a friend who had an enlightening philosophy about willpower: if you think it and believe it, then it's true. As long as you don't turn a blind eye to reality, then I say this philosophy is extremely effectuaI. I severely questioned this at first, but found it intriguing nonetheless. It reminded me of that book, "The Secret" that was all the rage, the talk of the nation for the longest time. You couldn't walk by a Borders or a Barnes and Noble without spotting one of those bad boys in the window. You were bound to come across this book when window shopping. Like that Fitty Cent song, "Window Shopper." Quality song. Anyway, what was the point of this opus of mine? Oh right. I had the realization that willpower, or in other words, "the ability to overcome laziness and procrastination, the ability to control or reject unnecessary or harmful impulses, the ability to arrive to a decision and follow it with perseverance until its successful accomplishment. It is the inner power that overcomes the desire to indulge in unnecessary and useless habits, and the inner strength that overcomes inner emotional and mental resistance for taking action. It is one of the cornerstones of success, both spiritual and material." This sounds like something we all could use, I know I could more so than many people! I think I have developed an immense knack for persevering in so many ways. Yet, at times I feel like I am vulnerable, too sensitive yet simultaneously strong-willed and plucky. And I daresay FIERCE? No, that would be flattering myself a tad too much. Anyway, I have been getting better in the self-discipline department I think. Yes, I procrastinate but who doesn't? But learning when to slap yourself on the wrist and say "Don't even fucking think about it!" is a highly imperative skill to have in life. I'm working at it. I mean, I don't have texting or facebook at the moment so that most certainly helps. No facebook by choice, but not texting but I'm not going to lie. That would've triggered countless more problems for myself. But I always feel like I throw myself under the bus enough as it is. And obliviously too. Why am I so oblivious?! Why am I so dense?! My Grandma even called me a DUNCE ONCE! Should I just go about my daily life sporting one of those old school, little red schoolhouse in the middle of some god-for-saken meadow dunce caps?! I don't make myself into a dunce. A lot of people do that I know, to get attention or who even knows why. But I frankly this my inner ditziness overshadows the wits I do have! I feel like I say far too many imprudent things. Or maybe it's because I talk without thinking? Perhaps willpower can be the antidote to that as well. I need another dose of self-restraint. Yes, I'm getting better but it's very gradual. No drastic changes. 
Self-restraint
Discipline
Drive
Okay, I have drive. I definitely do, I have big, larger than life notions for myself but I do my best to not unveil them TOO much because it'll make me look like a joke and a half! But quite honestly, this whole willpower makes me think of how many glaring flaws I possess and how much I want to change about myself. It's a rarity to see someone change for the better, I believe, but we are capable of doing so. Because if we don't change ourselves, well it's not as if anyone else can change us. 


I sort of enjoy the fact that I'm misunderstood most of the time. That's fine. 
~Billie Joe Armstrong


Anybody who writes doesn't like to be misunderstood. ~Norman MacCaig 


Well, those two quotes are certainly very contradictory. I concur more with the first one. I think it's beneficial to be a little bit understood, it spices things up a hell of a lot more. It throws some enchantment into the mix. It's endearing. It behooves one to be bizarre and eccentric! To some degree. If you're entirely, wildly cracked out then you're going to repel people and NOT be entertaining. Just merely creepy. But if you have some kind of balance a perfect blend of a peculiar nature and an amusing one, then that's swell and dandy for you!


Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.  
~Scott Adams

Let's be real here. If I could handle it, I'd do hard drugs. Well, I'd dabble. I'm brutally envious of one of my friends, who goes to this truly bohemian, free-spirited school where there are raves every weekend and X is dished out like Smirnoff here. Or Keystone.


I will try anything, but some things I know my body COULD NOT HANDLE. I can't even handle rum in a mixed drink. Why am I such a weakling? My friends mercilessly mock me for being "frag-ILE" and tragically, it's kind of true. I don't want to victimize myself or say that I'm a damsel in distress because I'm absolutely NOT. If I'm perceived that way, that's highly fallacious. I mean think what you want but that's crazy talk! Anyway, I'd never do hardcore drugs because frankly, I don't want to be in a body bag anytime soon, although my funeral is planned right down to the Gaga/Cheryl Cole playlist, the rainbow streamers everywhere, and the drag queens lip synching the Jersey Shore theme song. So if I'm going to be tossed in a coffin anytime soon, at least I'll be prepared.


Anyway, I want to do the craziest shit in my life. The craziest shit possible. Just as long as I don't harm anyone, then I am more than game! I want to jump on every opportunity possible that comes up and go for eVeRyThInG! Yes, that sounds exceptionally cheesy but I don't give a shit! It's true!


If you don't try bitches, then how will you know???? You won't know. The silver lining of doing crazy shit is: the fabulous anecdootes you get out of it. That's all I really want. And of course, the experiences. You can say "I did that! What on EARTH is wrong with me?!?!" And your friends will say, "Oh, lots of things. Too many things to name." I want to have a night where I couldn't possibly be any louder, could not dance any more, be on furniture that is so high up it touches the sky, have people stare and laugh at me. Or with me. Call me an attention whore, but that's just how I'm wired.

<===How hot is this? Makin' vodka sexay! It's like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz gone bad! Good girl gone bad! Like Rihanna. 


P.S. I want a red jumpsuit like that, with the heels! How hot would that be? Maybe for Halloween next year I can be a go go dancer. Or put that Bam Bam costume to good use finally! 

Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us 
And the world will live as one 
-John Lennon


If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other. -Mother Teresa 

I absolutely love Kathy Fucking Griffin.

Drag shows may very well be my new obsession. I want to do a shitload more of them before I die! It was absolutely exhilarating and intoxicating! I was Usher, Pitbull and AJ from the Backstreet Boys. Next year I'm thinking Michael Jackson and/or Adam Lambert. But being in a group makes it so much more fun! Or I can do both. That would work too! Maybe I can be a professional drag or burlesque performer somewhere down the line (it can be a precursor to my year of stripping that I plan on doing in a lesbian bar for a year in order to write a book about it. And it WON'T be a self-indulgent, self-actualization, self-discovery kind of deal like "Eat, Pray, Love." Although, not going to lie, the main character in that movie/book reminded me so much of myself. I told my mom that and she's like, "Ugh don't say that!" My mom had to read that book for her book club I believe and was NOT a fan! Anyway, I digress, per usual. 

<===That is one FIERCE wig right there! That's so Katy Perry from the "California Gurls" video. 

<=== How "Chicago" is THAT? Totally right up my alley! Next year for the drag show I think I want to be a faux queen with some guys and maybe some girls and we can do a number with some top hats and chair dancing. How epic would that be?!?!

Channeling Something to Ease the Tedium

In this supposed hallowed haven, I submerged myself in absurdities and pure imagination so that the time would pass more rapidly. Killing time is no easy feat, mind you, but if you put enough thought into it, it can truly work wonders.
In short, I must say, that absurdities and pure imagination were truly my strong suits. Naturally, this will certainly suffice for sixty minutes.

I catch a glimpse at the tattered and vomit-colored seat next to me to spot a nasty old toad of a woman sniveling and chortling. What a peculiar woman. I rolled my eyes and proceeded to shoot her a withering stare. How bizarre of her!

She was an elderly woman sans any kind of decent dental work, sporting colossal bifocals that made her beady, dark eyes the size of bowling balls.

Paradoxically, the loon was clad in none other than a Vera Wang pantsuit.

"Hmm...how out of the ordinary! What an odd attire for such a squishy old moppet," I thought to myself.

I was crude, rude, and vindictive. But that certainly didn't stop me. After all, the woman was staring daggers at me that very moment.

Her cheeks were ruddy. It was as if she had just spent the past week skiing in Aspen. From the looks of it, she certainly has the cash. The gobs and gobs of eye shadow, blush, and eyeliner that were smeared all over her doughy face were certainly blatant implications that she may very well be a gold-digger.

Then I spotted the dark purple lipstick that was splotched negligently across her lips. "Or she could be a crack whore," I thought to myself.

"TEN CENTS A DANCE!" I thought of a fitting slogan in my head.

Then I cringed. Glancing up at the filthy, ancient clock hanging from a nail on the wall, I realized it was finally, at long last, time to go. 

For those days we felt like a mistake 
Those times when loves what you hate
somehow
we keep marchin on
For those nights that i couldn't be there,
I've made it harder to know that you know
That somehow
We'll keep movin' on
There's so many wars we fought
There's so many things we're not
But with what we have
I promise you that
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on
There's so many wars we fought
There's so many things we're not
But with what we have
I promise you that
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on
So many hills we had to climb
almost without our strength
but we kept
slowly marchin on
time heals the wounds we couldnt close
blood sweat and tears dried up
we're okay
we kept marchin on
There's so many wars we fought
There's so many things we're not
But with what we have
I promise you that
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on
There's so many wars we fought
There's so many things we're not
But with what we have
I promise you that
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on
get your legs and walk
cause we're not too far
a little more to go
but we're marchin on
we marchin on
we marchin on
we marchin on
we marchin
if we lose the sun we couldnt deny that
if we go the wind we gotta fight back
but we marchin on
we marchin on
we marchin on
we marchin
the bridges are gone
and we're almost home
the end is close
There's so many wars we fought
There's so many things we're not
But with what we have
I promise you that
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on
There's so many wars we fought
There's so many things we're not
But with what we have
I promise you that
We're marchin' on
We're marchin' on

HO HO HO!

A TALE OF SIX CRAZIES (I wrote this for my friends last year and I fully intend to write a new and improved one this year and include my fabulous new friends in it NATURALLY!)

Once upon a time in a land far, far, far, far away called Schwitzer Hall there lived six clinically insane young women. Gaga Clareth Cakes, a vociferous, intractable, frizzy-haired hot mess of a cunt was one of the six. Her five friends were: Brewski Eeyore, an abnormally pocket-sized runt who was addicted to Facebook quizzes and had an online shopping addiction and stayed up with her roommate Sab to ungodly hours of the night planning their weddings and shopping for non-hookerish, non-tacky wedding dresses. Then there was La Pop, who pretended she never farmed and is a ballet dancer on the outside, yet a bonkers maniac on the inside. Then there was Ave-Dawg who adored giving motivational speeches and purchasing arbitrary items with her 96.7835 credit cards in her spare time. Then there was Sabby Rina, who enjoyed chuckling at arbitrary times about things that were unbeknownst to others as well as devouring carbs faster than Clareth devoured Gaga’s “Fame Monster” tracks. And then there was Grapes the Emilio Lover who enjoyed throwing around phrases such as “What the heck?” and Skyped and texted like there was no tomorrow. 

Now on this particular day, these six young gals decided to wreak havoc in 3NW as usual. Clareth and Grapes noisily waddled up the stairs. Clareth was shouting something about being underneath Christmas trees while simultaneously belting out Pig Latin-esque sounding babble. It was something along the lines of “rah rah ah ah ah ah ga ga ooh la la la.” 

“CLARE!” La Pop screeched like a weasel with throat cancer. “Is that you?” “WHAAAAAAT?! How did you KNOW?!” Clareth boomed. 

“Lucky guess,” Pop burbled, melodramatically shrugging her shoulders.

Then, Pop, Grapes, and Clareth toddled into Brew and Sab’s room in search of mountains of food and groovy, eye-popping entertainment. Brew was bouncing around like a spastic Furby to “He’s Could Be the One” with her hair in a mammoth-sized crumpled fuzzy furball. Naturally, and per usual, her feet were just barely dangling off the bed and she was frantically shoving caramel rice cakes in her mouth, her bloodshot eyes bulging out of her eye sockets like a rabid raccoon. And Sab, naturally and per usual was cackling wildly like a hyena to “The Mentalist” and “Bones” fan fiction stories.

“Sabby what are laughing at?” La squeaked.

“Oh my God you guys I learned the best move in karate today! It’s called the chainsaw hatchet bloodsucking rabid animal blender yippee skippee rabbit hop kick swipe punch shank!” Ave rumbled, skipping around the room like an ancient fossil of a grandmother on LSD mixed with meth. “First thing you gotta do in order to execute this move is to acquire a stick of dynamite and some razorblades and a police baton...and other hazerdous materials...”

“Dude, test that out on Brewski right this instant before I cut you up into a billion pieces and put you in my smoothie and suck you down for breakfast,” Grapes warned menacingly, cracking her knuckles.

“Hey guys guess what?” Clareth queried, her eyes widening excitedly. 

“What?!” everyone shot back, on the edge of their seats.

“Wait hold on. Hold that thought,” Clareth slurred. “I gotsta get me some comida.” Then she proceeded to take the liberty of slithering under Brew’s bed like a serpent to drain Brew dry of food. After sixteen boxes of black pepperjack Doritos and various other munchies, she was ready to tell her invigorating tale.

“I don’t remember what I was gonna say. But I had another dream about Gaga last night. She felt me up in the hot tub at the sauna of the HRC then I was dying of heat so she drove me to the hospital after snorting a row and then in the waiting room sprayed whipped cream on me and poured Kool Aid in my mouth, put a straw in there and drank it all up. Then we rented a Jeep and drove through the ocean to Fiji and partied with some baboons and then we went to a nude beach and then went out to eat at a real classy place sporting only firebras and hot pink skirts.”

Sab began to cackle like a madwoman.

“I know I’m hysterical,” Clareth cooed, fluffing her tangly mess of a bird’s nest that posed as locks of hair.

“No it’s not you you dolt, Sab’s reading a fan fiction story,” Pop snapped, deadpan.

“Yeah bitch,” Grapes snorted.

“Who wants to fight me?” Ave burbled euphorically. “I wanna test out my new moves and kick one of your asses from here to China!”

“Fight Christy!” Pop said, nuzzling Grapes yet again and simultaneously punching her repeatedly in the mouth until she was gushing blood...again. 

“Wait you apeshit lionesses I’m sickeningly busy at the moment listening to some old crappy Dixie Chicks song for the umpteenth time. Don’t you dare rush me!” Brew snarled, waving a finger menacingly at them all.

“Are you high?” Sab queried.

“WHAT?! YOU HAVE AN STD?!” Clareth wondered aloud.

“Clareth, Jesus don’t strain your voice. You’re on your period now, you know,” Pop snapped.

“Yeah bitch, you gotsta take it easy, you catch what I’m throwing?” Grapes asked, with her finger up her nose.

“Careful, you can get an STD if you keep that up,” Brew and Sab observed.

“What is going on? All I want in life is to kick people’s asses around and to take over Germany with a shitload of hot men with superbly chisled abs!” Ave purred and whined. 

“Okay, let’s do this shizznat,” Brew boomed, her face growing increasingly crimson, resembling more and more like a tomato submerged in a sea of blood.

“You all suck. I want some purple drank, some sizzurp, and Gaga to assist me in digging up MJ’s grave,” Clareth petulantly whined, while running her hand through her hair.

“Did you just say that out loud?” Pop boomed.

“You did not just go there,” Grapes snorted, her finger still up her nose.

“Hey guess what you guys?” Clareth howled, waving her arms around frantically like a monkey on crack cocaine.

“What now you obnoxious bane of my existence?” Sab muttered under her breath, scrolling down through yet another fan fiction story.

“Well so yesterday I was searching high and low for my eyeliner right? And my room is a hotass mess quite like myself so it was a bit of a challenge to say the least so I was in way over my head. So I didn’t want to go to teaching class looking like a corpse. I mean, I was already in sweats and I had to make a presentation so I didn’t want to look subhuman or whatever but pretty soon since I was late as hell, I had to just stick with mascara...”

“Shut up. I detest you,” Pop said, deleting all of Clareth’s texts from her phone.

“Yeah cuntface I’m trying to squeeze Ave to a bloody pulp you asswipe,” Brew snarled, her ghost-colored face turning beet red again.

“Chill, Scarlet Casper. So then I go about my day right? I go to class, babble a lot, sit with my feet up on the table in teaching class, then cry in the computer lab and cry harder when my phone dies wishing I had some white wine and a Sun Chip and a marshmellow or two and then I get back to my room at like 9ish right and I need to change my tampon so I fiddle around down there like I’m fingering myself and then OMFG there’s my eyeliner just chillin’ in my panties! I was elated I found it so I just tossed it in my makeup bag and go about my merry way.”

“Okay, Ave let’s fight, bitchy woman. I needa get back to Social Interviewing,” Brew snarls, hopping up and down like a boozing bunny on a pogo stick.

“If Pop would stop spreading her legs at me then I could fight you, you piece of crud,” Ave bellowed.

Pop just cackled insanely and started humping Grapes’s leg again until Grapes ran out of the room to Skype Emilio until 4:30 in the morning.

“Stop thrusting, Lorenzo,” Sab said matter of factly, tossing a hairy M&M at La-Dee-Da. “Or at the very least, stop itching our coochie. If it’s so prickly so use some of Clareth’s Vagisil.”

“No, it gets my juices flowing, ya hear?”

CRASH. BOOM. SPLAT. 

Suddenly, out of the blue, Brew and Ave were sprawled out on the ground in spread eagle positions snorting and chuckling like two intoxicated cows with itchy, tingling udders.

“WHAT THE HECK?” Grapes wonders aloud, darting back into the room like a power-walking 80s jogging suit wearing batty old coot. 

“Oh they just cracked their heads open, everything’s fine and dandy!” Pop said dismissively, while rummaging through Brew’s bag of laffy taffies.

“Grapes I found my eyeliner in my vag yesterday,” Clareth said shortly, taking off her shirt, given that she was having a menopausal hot flash.

“Looks like La Ga is turning into Janelle,” Sab observed.

Pop just cackles wickedly yet again like a hyena with her hands on her vag...again, and 50.6293842398 laffy taffies in her mouth.

“But this feels soooooo warm,” La-Dee-Da cooed.

“My vag didn’t feel so warm yesterday when an eyeliner was shoved up it all day,” Clareth said, parking herself at Brew’s desk and searching through her files and papers and such like the notorious busy body she is. “I didn’t even notice it was down there! Silly me! I guess I’m just used to having something crammed up there!”

“Hey Bleeding Betty get outta my desk bitch,” Brew snarls, grabbing Ga by her neck and holding her up into the air like Simba was held up in “The Lion King.”

Then Janelle storms in like a bat out of hell...in her birthday suit.

“Guys, I found a silverfish. Sab I know you like to gobble those bad boys up. Wanna ingest mine pretty please with a cherry on top?” Janelle queries, cracking her knuckles.

“Sure thing, fave RA!” Sab said, ruddy-cheeked, with a grin stretching across her face. 

“Anyone else want a taste of a silverfish?” Janelle ardently asks, her eyes maniacally darting around the room. 

“Sorry, got to go. I have to help my friend’s cousin’s godmother change her fax cartridge because she’s going on an African safari tomorrow. So I better scram right now guys! Ga ga ooh la la ah rah rah rah rah rah ah ah ah ah ah...” and soon enough, luckily for everyone, Clareth voice faded into oblivion as she pitter pattered down the hall back to her jail cell-esque room to bask in stone cold silence with her sadistic, achingly stoic roommate.

“I got to...scrub a toilet with my uh...vanilla milkshake,” Pop said and briskly bounced out of the room.

“I have to go sell Easy Mac through the halls of Schwitz,” Brew blathers and makes a mad dash for the door, yelping like a bound and gagged puppy who happens to be chained to a fence.

“I need to go munch on some Ghetto Tarts, betches,” Grapes says nonchalantly and scurries out of the room like a mouse on heroin.

“Yeah...I have to go jet to Germany and go bar hopping...and drink mojitos,” Ave roars and stomps out of the room to review her award-winning speech.

        THE DAMN END. 

I am so obsessed with this song! I don't even know why!

This isn't my usual taste in music---quite the opposite actually. But still, I have a wide range of tastes in things! I'm flexible. And this song is a contemporary classic. It strikes such a chord with me, for whatever reason.

And I'd give up forever to touch you 
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Verse 2

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Verse 3

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know your alive

Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Chorus

I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

An Excerpt from a Play Entitled “Harebrained Liaisons”  

Act I, Scene 1.

Lola McNulty, 18 years old, one of the two main characters of the play has just been sent by her parents in a taxi to Crestwood Psychiatric Hospital, a prestigious yet small mental institution about an hour away from her home. Lola is a bright young woman, however she is rather reserved and withdrawn at times, yet very rowdy and boisterous at other times. Lola is extraordinarily cynical, oversensitive, self-loathing, and naturally, has rather low self-esteem, and is an overall very furious young girl. Overall, she feels as if she’s dreadfully mediocre and abhors the world, and as you can probably already deduce, she has quite a bit of pent-up anger as well as anxiety boiling inside of her. She’s absurdly unhappy with everything that is going on with her life and is, not to mention, rather ireful over the fact that her parents took the liberty of sending her to a mental hospital, against her will, in spite of the fact that there are countless valid reason why her parents chose to do what they did.


Lola: It all started with a Journey song. Who knew that “Don’t Stop Believin’” could trigger such a catastrophe? It’s quite the paradox, really. It was only three months into our friendship and it was as if we had known each other for eons. This evident connection we had was quite literally…very eerie really. And this happened right off the bat too. The day we first became acquainted, we ended up going out for ice cream and yakking the night away…well, until we got kicked out by management that is. It was most peculiar. I didn’t even think it was humanely possible to get along with someone that well! One dismal, tempestuous night, she was over and we were sprawled out on my basement floor listening to archaic CDs and chatting. We had initially planned to go for a drive to get some fries and shakes at Mondo Bite but of course it was raining cats and dogs at the time so we were trapped in my goddamn house. Anyway, I can recall we had an abnormally in depth discussion on our mentally unhinged relatives…I gave a sermon on my Aunt Barbara who flings her fine China into the garbage disposal when she’s hosed. As if she isn’t completely off her rocker when she’s sober! And naturally, this triggered her story on her neurotic, reclusive grandmother who only leaves the house to purchase colossal books of crossword puzzles at Barnes and Noble; and not to mention the tale about her uncle who plays banjos on street corners…oh! Or her wack job of a cousin who refuses to consume anything but corn dogs and Craisins. Well, soon enough, we got into a delightfully pointless dispute over which would be a more appealing and sophisticated kind of tree to plant in a backyard; a fig tree or an apple tree. Well, when we were both on the verge of imploding out of inflexibility, my brother Sebastian sauntered in, in a very haughty manner, per usual. Suddenly, she and Sebastian began talking up a storm to one another, their eyes wide and glistening, their body language clearly implied to me that they had completely forgotten that I was in the room. Sure, I was irked, befuddled, and flabbergasted…I didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on…but I’m persistent so I threw in a few sardonic and crass comments there, did a few celebrity impersonations there and still…nothing. I was invisible. I was an apparition. I was…nothing. It didn’t take me long to come to the realization that her and my brother were completely infatuated with one another. I’m not a thickheaded ninny! I can sense these things in the blink of an eye! Well…long story short I was kicked to the curb, and never heard a word from her again, despite the sporadic voicemails I left on her phone. She was far too busy spending every minute of her free time with my brother. Because she had gotten all of Sebastian, she didn’t want any of me. I lost my beloved ally. A little part of me had shriveled up and vanished into oblivion. I hope he was worth it, but something tells me that I highly doubt that that is so. I should’ve known it was all too good to be true. We clicked so well, so instantly. I was such a fool to think such an instantaneous camaraderie would be an everlasting one. Life just doesn’t work like that...well, not in MY life at least. There are always strings attached. Well, needless to say, later that night after she zoomed away in her little convertible, and after Sebastian made several phone calls to his friends to gloat, I was in a very fragile state, as you can imagine. I was shaken to my very core. The heavenly, cathartic arbitrariness of she and I had come to a grinding halt. It was if I had suddenly become fettered, trapped, exposed; tossed out into…into the cold. So accordingly, I daintily plodded up the stairs, my eyes heavy and dull in my raw and tender sockets, scalding tears burning paths on my cheekbones, and I lumbered into my room with a heavy heart and a throbbing, empty cranium, closed the door as gently and calmly as I could, picked up my father’s old, massive belt (he’s a burly man) which happened to be submerged in a heap of clothes on my floor, and then I mounted my desk, looped the belt through the hook on my ceiling which I used to use to hang baskets teeming with stuffed animals, tied the other end around my neck, double knotted both ends, kicked my desk out from under me and…well, tragically, this plan of mine didn’t pan out too well…like clockwork, my mom barged in, like she always does, much to my displeasure, and let out a howl so shrill and so deafening, that I’m sure it burst some poor bloke’s eardrums halfway across the world…(sighs, laughs a little) And here I am.


Act I, Scene 2.

Lola pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the medium-sized red brick building that is Crestwood Psychiatric Hospital, takes a deep breath, furrows her brow, and trudges into the building with her fists clenched and shaking. She is looking faint, ghostly pale, haggard, and blatantly uncomfortable. She slowly makes her way into a brightly lit and elegant-looking waiting room where a woman at a desk greets her and asks her if she can sign some papers so she can be released into the hospital’s care officially, before she taken to the ward will she will be staying. There are doors adjacent to the woman’s desk, including the office of the psychiatrist Dr. Marcia French. When Lola stumbles into the waiting room she stops dead in her tracks, looks around incredulously and closes her eyes, until the secretary speaks to her and startles her.


Secretary: (curiously) Hello, dear…can I help you with something?

Lola: (pulls a cigarette out of her pocket, lights up, and takes a long drag and says mordantly) Nah, actually…I’m good. Just dandy, as a matter of fact. (stealthily heads for the door to get the hell out of Dodge.)

Secretary: Excuse me, miss. You’re not going anywhere. Wait a minute…(glances down at a mound of papers in front of her) are you…by any chance…Lola McNulty?

Lola: (flares her nostrils) You know what…I’m not actually. Listen, lady, I think there’s been some kind of mistake…

Secretary: (rudely, impatiently) According to my records, there is no mistake that you speak of. Your parents called a few hours ago to admit you here. (chortles perversely) Looks like you have already been spoken for…so if you can sign this form right here, you will be released into our care.

Lola: (abruptly infuriated) Look you two-bit, working-class harpy, you listen to me and you listen good… (wags finger menacingly in woman’s face) I’m 18. I’m legal. My parents can say all the bullshit they want about me but try as they might, they’re just wasting their breath ‘cuz I speak for myself now. Got it?

Secretary: (narrows her eyes and peers broodingly at Lola) You can insult me all you want young lady, but it’s going to get you nowhere. You live at home, do you not? I’ll answer that for you…you do. You are still in high school so therefore, your parents have more say in this aspect than you do…got it?

Lola: (takes a quick, yet composed and calm drag of her cigarette again, and then proceeds to lunge at the woman, thrusting her cigarette at her in an attempt to burn her, and startlingly, grabs the poor, frail secretary by her arms and shakes her, still clutching her cigarette.) I don’t belong here goddamn it…so I made some…rash decisions but so what? What’s the big deal? They were all empty threats you goddamn…(looks up and flinches violently as she spots a nurse saunter into the waiting room.)


(Enter Nurse Amy Ainsworth. Nurse Ainsworth rushes in, her eyes wide in terror at the sight of Lola grappling with the poor old woman at the desk, attempting to burn her with her cigarette. Nurse Ainsworth dashes over, grabs Lola, drags her away from the petrified secretary and smashes her into one of the leather chairs in the waiting room.)


Nurse: (with her hands on her hips) Well I take it that you’re Lola McNulty. We got a call about you a few hours ago…we’ve been expecting you. We thought you sounded like you needed some time in the crazy house, not an anger management class. What the hell’s wrong with you?

Lola: (takes a drag from her cigarette) I don’t need to be here, lady. I’m fine. Honest. Sure, I made a few mistakes, and sure I’m a bit self-destructive but come on now, I’m a teenager. (laughs) What do you expect? It would be normal not to be a self-loathing, self-indulgent adolescent descending further and further into the depths of despair.

Nurse: (guffaws) Don’t be absurd. You’re coming with me. You’ve got a long road ahead of you, missy. Oh and by the way, allow me to introduce myself…I’m Nurse Amy Ainsworth, and I’ll be taking care of you and the other girls in Ward 3 here at Crestwood…so on behalf of the entire staff of Crestwood Psychiatric Hospital…welcome.

Lola: (sardonically) Gee thanks, I can’t even tell you how ecstatic I am to be here.

Nurse: Shut your trap. I’m not gonna take any sass from you, McNulty, you hear? Now go sign that release form and I’ll take you into the ward to meet the others and get you your room.

Lola reluctantly scribbles her name on the sheet of paper, glowers at the secretary who is grinning snidely at her, and Nurse proceeds to grab her by the arm and yanks her through the door and into a corridor that leads into the ward.

Act I, Scene 3.

Lola grudgingly ambles far behind Nurse Ainsworth as Nurse leads her into the ward, Ward 3, where Lola will be staying. They traipse through a narrow, rather dark corridor into the ward and Nurse leads Lola to one of the bedrooms, which is near the common room where Lola will be staying with a roommate.

Nurse: (gestures rapidly, impatiently to a tiny, shoebox of a room) That’s your bedroom…and that’s all you need to know as of now.

Lola: (stares bleakly, skeptically, and bleary-eyed into the bedroom) How am I supposed to fit myself in there, much less all of my stuff that my parents are gonna send over? That room is infinitesimal…(takes a step further) Jesus, Mary and Joseph why on Earth is there a Kurt Cobain poster tacked to the wall? Frankly, that’s morbid. (sardonically, acrimoniously) Wait a second. Let me guess. It’s inspiration!

Nurse: (raises and eyebrow and looks at her with a shocked expression plastered on her face, says sardonically) Well, aren’t YOU a hoot.

Lola: (lights up another cigarette and brings it to her lips and takes a puff of it) You bet your boots.

Nurse: Well, you can be as offensive and rude and vulgar as you please Miss McNulty but you ain’t gonna get a rise outta me. I’ve dealt with far worse train wrecks than you.

Lola: Psssh!

Nurse: And no smoking in the ward, missy. (Violently snatches the cigarette out from between Lola’s teeth and tosses it behind her onto the floor of the hallway.)

Lola: Litterbug.

Nurse: Oh, can it. Rex and Jackson’ll take care of it.

Lola: (sing song voice) Oooh are these boys that you speak of? Are they hunks? Heartthrobs? Play-ahs?

Nurse: (edgily) Volunteers. They’re orderlies. Do whatever I tell ‘em to do…they volunteer every Saturday and Sunday afternoon. About your age. Gotta keep them far away from Genevieve though. We don’t want her sinking her claws into ‘em.

Lola: Come again?

Nurse: (ignores Lola) Or fangs.

Lola: I am deducing none of this.

Nurse: You’ll know soon enough.

Lola: (to herself) Goddamn ambiguousness of this place…

Nurse: All right, enough with the prattling, girlie, let’s go get you acquainted with the rest of the gang.

Lola: You know, Nurse Ainsworth, I’d greatly appreciate it if you would please refrain from calling me “girlie.” Frankly, it makes you sound like a sleazy, fleshy, decrepit man who gobbles down chicken wings and frequents porn websites and taverns.

Nurse: (stares at Lola, befuddled like nobody’s business, speechless for a moment.) Not only are you crazy, girl, you also apparently have a debilitating case of word vomit.

Lola: I’m just brazen like that! I take pride in it.

Nurse: I can see that. Now come along now. Scoot!


Nurse Ainsworth leads Lola into a rather large, yet rather plain room with brown tattered couches, leather armchairs and a stereo and TV set plunked in the opposite corner of the doorway. There are two young women bellowing at each other. One is Florence Oliver, a trashy-looking women clad in multicolored, skintight disco pants with obscenely large amounts of makeup caked on her face. She is extraordinarily intimidating and is smoking an old-fashioned pipe, oddly enough and is screaming at a young girl, Cassie Simmons, a bratty and deer-in-the-headlights-looking girl who constantly looks like she is either sucking on a lemon or sitting on a tack. Florence looks highly amused, but Cassie, on the other hand looks like she’s on the verge of tears. We also meet Genevieve Van Linden in this scene, who is the other main character of the play. Note: In this scene Florence is smoking a pipe that contains marijuana. She is clearly high to everyone except for Nurse Ainsworth.


Florence: Your goddamn father owns a shoe repair shop. What the hell? What year is this, 1909 or 2009? Goddamn obsolete bastard. What’s next? A general store? A saloon?

Cassie: Grow a pair you rude bitch! He sold it three years ago, actually! Get your facts straight before I rip your face off! You don’t even know Daddy, so don’t you dare call him a bastard, you floozy! I’ll kill you…I’ll grab a dagger and slice your flesh off bit by bit, piece by piece…and then I’ll fling each piece of flesh slowly into a scorching bonfire and…and…and…I’ll enjoy it A LOT!

Lola: (softly, stunned) Oh my God. Where the hell am I?

Genevieve: (looks up from filing her nails) Get used to it sister, you’re not in Kansas anymore. You’re in the loony bin.

(Lola glowers at Genevieve, clearly just realizing that she was sitting there.)

Nurse: And watch your language when you’re around me, McNulty.

Lola: Okay, woman, let’s get a few things straight here. One, she just swore and you condoned it (gestures to Florence), two, why in Sam Hill can SHE smoke and I CAN’T? And don’t call me by my last name. What are you, a gym teacher?

Nurse: (mumbles half-jokingly) I knew I should have brought some duct tape with me to work this morning.

Florence: (laughs maniacally) Psssh! Puh-lease, puh-lease and puh-lease Shoe-In, you’re a twig! I could snap you in half with my bare hands and then kick your ass from here to the North Pole! I’d build you an igloo there where you can reclusively reside and inhale your beloved poppa’s shoes day in and day out as you wash random crap with you saliva and sleep on a mountain of powder-blue washcloths and sticks of Orbit or whatever…you need to get laid sister! Get with it! Gain a little more self-awareness! You’re PATHETIC!

Cassie: (trembles, then roars, clearly seething, lunges at Florence, and begins to attempt to pummel her) I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU! I’M GOING TO KILL…I’M GOING TO GET A GODDAMN AX AND CHOP YOU INTO A MILLION LITTLE PIECES! I’M GOING TO BURN YOU WITH A MILLION, A BILLION, A TRILLION GODDAMN MATCHES YOU WHORE! I’M GONNA TEAR YOU TO MICROSCOPIC SPECKS WITH MY THROWING STARS YOU…YOU…YOU SLUTTY, TRAMPY, STD-RIDDEN PIECE OF FILTH! YOU NASTY SLUT! I’M GONNA KILL YOU AND BRING YOU BACK TO LIFE AND THEN KILL YOU AGAIN!

Nurse: (angered) All right now, that’s enough! (steps in the middle of Florence and Cassie and gently tears them apart, shoving Florence into a chair on one side of the room and Cassie into another on the other side.)

Florence: (nonchalantly, takes another drag from her pipe, her eyes bloodshot and watery) That bitch is crazy, Amy A. Swear to God. No joke. She has got to go. You can bet your bottom dollar like Annie that she’s gonna be one psychotic ol’ windbag someday…a withered crone with a heart of dirt and a bottle of vodka in one hand.

Cassie: (grumpily, a tad more composed) At least I don’t bang postmen in broad daylight under my piece of crap trailer like a raccoon or whatever. Trailer trash. (sniffs haughtily and sticks her nose up.)

Florence: (remains blasé, takes another drag from her bong) I’m gonna choose to not respond to you, virgin.

Nurse: Shut up you two, you don’t want me to toss you both in solitary confinement again do you? You do want dinner this evening do you not?

(Florence and Cassie remain silent and gaze at the floor.)

Nurse: Ha! That’s a first that ol’ Florence didn’t have a snappy, acerbic remark to make about the cafeteria food. Ha! I never thought I’d live to see the day. You almost left me speechless, Flo, so kudos to YOU. Now McNulty, don’t you worry because one of the civil, tractable ladies here will take the liberty of introducing you to everyone and showing you the ropes and whatnot. But I have some things I have to do before we proceed, so I will be back in a jiffy…(abruptly scurries off to office, we assume.)

Lola: (unenthused) Fabulous.

(Awkward silence.)

(An evil glint flickers in Florence’s eyes and she hops up from her seat, still smoking her pipe teeming with pot. )

Florence: (puts hand on Lola’s shoulder.) I will do the honors, my dear. No need to fret! Salutations, amiga, I am Florence Oliver, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. (Roughly grabs Lola’s arm and shakes her hand.) And I am quite sure you are pleased to make mine as well. Why are you in here, hey?

Lola: Um…well…I…I…I…well, I…tried to kill myself. Then my mother walked in. Got caught red-handed. Sent here. Quickly.

Florence: Well, someone’s a bit monosyllabic, wouldn’t you say? (Looks around to the others for approval or a reaction, at the very least.)

Lola: Look, I don’t even know you…Florence is it? I’m not gonna tell you my entire life story right now of all times!

Stella: Someone’s not only monosyllabic…someone’s also sassy!

Florence: Well, now, let’s get this show on the road already. Now, listen closely munchkin…(gestures to Stella with her pipe) That’s Earl.

Cheyenne: Love it! (Laughs hysterically and maniacally.)

Lola: What?

Florence: Earl. Earlham. Stella Earlham. The spectacular Stella Earlham! The notorious Stella Earlham! The transfixing Stella Earlham! Used to be a stripper. And a hooker…(whispers) she nailed men for the cash money if you catch what I’m throwin’.

Lola: I deduced that.

Stella: (looks up from magazine) Bite me, Florence.

Florence: Gladly, sweet cheeks. And this…(gestures wildly to Cheyenne) is all 1,000 or so tons of (fake Texan drawl) Cheyenne Dixon! She’s the stout woman who lived in a shoe…(coughs) Cassie reference (coughs). And she had oh so many children and husbands that she didn’t know what to do! She’s essentially the female, morbidly obese, less famous version of Mick Jagger, if you will.

Cheyenne: (hotly) I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp. Me and Spike are doing just dandy, not that it’s any of your business.

Florence: How DANDY can you possibly be doing with some bloke with the name of SPIKE?

Genevieve: And how many children do you have again, Cheyenne?

Cheyenne: (pauses, horrified and panic-stricken, says softly) I choose not to answer that question.

Florence: Nine!

Genevieve: Better get it up to twelve soon, Hefty Bag, that way you can get ‘em cheaper by the dozen.

Cheyenne: Eat me.

Florence: I’ll take a rain check.

Genevieve: As will I.

Lola: (infuriated) What’s the matter with you all? Why are you so cruel to each other? Learn to reel it in for Pete’s sake! No wonder you’re all so crazy.

(Cheyenne, Genevieve, Florence and Stella look at her, awestruck. An awkward pause. Cheyenne smiles at Lola, Lola smiles back.)

Stella: Well, Cheyenne may be a serial divorcee but ya gotta love the gal for her flaws, don’t ‘cha?

Genevieve: You’re one to talk, you’re pretty jacked up yourself.

Stella: As are you, you sex addict you. As promiscuous as a high-class call girl at the tender ol’ age of what is it, Gen? 15? How many guys have you plowed may I ask?

Genevieve: Oh, shut your piehole.

Cheyenne: You’ve had more sex in one year than I’ve had my entire life!

Genevieve: Oh, Beefy Cheeks…hmm, too many comebacks, I cannot choose…

Florence: (sardonically) Poor little rich girl!

Genevieve: I said shut up! I mean it, goddamn it! I’ll claw your beady little eyes out!

Cassie: You gonna pull a me Gen? Come on, I dare ya! (turns to Lola) Oh, I’m Cassie by the way. Nice to meetcha!

Lola: (sardonically, feigning warmth) And it’s nice to meet YOU. It’s nice to meet all of you.

Stella: (mumbling) It sure ain’t ever nice meeting Cheyenne though, now that’s for sure.

Cheyenne: Hey Stella, what’s the difference between a bitch and a slut?

Stella: (bored, deadpan) What?

Cheyenne: A slut will sleep with anybody, and a bitch will sleep with anybody but you.

Stella: What’s the meaning of your little opus, Senora Plump?

Cheyenne: I just reckon that you somehow manage to fit both of those descriptions pretty damn well.

Stella: (clearly not listening to Cheyenne, then abruptly jerks her head up in order to respond) Oh, I’m sorry, are you still talking?

Cheyenne: (mumbles to herself, while marching away to go back to flipping through TV channels) Nobody in this dump could understand fine humor even if it hit ‘em right between the eyes.

(Genevieve stares at Lola, who is just out of her line of vision, firing up another square now that Nurse Ainsworth is out of sight. Gen skulks over to her and initiates a chat as Florence, Cassie, Cheyenne and Stella pore over tabloids and fiddle with the TV and radio.)

Gen: Hey…Lola is it?

Lola: Yep, that’s me.

Gen: Can I bum one?

Lola: Nope.

Gen: Bite me.

Lola: Don’t say garbage like that to me. I don’t even know you.

Gen: Exactly. (Whips out her nail file again and fiddles with it.) Hey so what’s your story? Why’d you get dumped here so arbitrarily?

Lola: None of yours.

Gen: Excuse me?

Lola: None. Of. Your. Business. Got it?

Gen: Hey, sister, (mockingly) YOU reel it in!

(Lola blows smoke in Gen’s face.)

Gen: (feigning cheeriness) Hey Lola guess what?

Lola: Whatever may it be Genevieve?

Gen: I don’t like the looks of you. You better watch yourself around me. I don’t let anybody walk all over me. I run my own life. And your name sounds like a porn star name, by the way.

Lola: Gee, that’s original. Keep preaching, lady, maybe things will work out in my favor and your vocal cords will fall out.

Gen: How realistic! Maybe if I smoke one more of those, you’ll get your wish, girlfriend.

Lola: Look, do you mind? I’m trying to get some peace and quiet so could you possibly beat it?

Gen: (chuckles perversely) Peace and quiet? Where do you think you are Porn Star? No such thing exists within the four walls of Crestwood.

(Lola ignores Gen.)

(Nurse’s voice offstage: DINNERTIME! WASH UP AND LINE UP OUTSIDE OF THE COMMON ROOM! LET’S GET A MOVE ON, GIRLIES!)

(All the women except for Gen and Lola scurry out of the common room/off of the stage.)

Gen: Oh, so is this how it’s gonna be from now on, Porn Star? Never fear, chica, ‘cuz once you move on into my room we’re just gonna have one helluva time being bunk buddies! (Gives Lola a friendly punch.) Just think, I’ll be in your personal space twenty-four-seven! My gosh, we’ll get to know each other so gosh-darn-diddly well! (Sings) We’re gonna have a gay old time! (Skips away as Lola stares wide-eyed and gawking, with her mouth slightly ajar, drops her cigarette, and massages her temples. The lights dim.)