Monday, January 10, 2011
…and in all honesty, I KNEW I didn’t like him,
the moment I met him.
I didn’t like his face.
His whole head.
I didn’t like his head.
But I don’t like my own head.
There you go.
If I was a Bond girl, none of this would be happening to me.
I would be in a glittering, skin-tight gown, at a casino.
Gun in my clutch.
Stiletto in my garter.
If he had been a surgeon, rather than a shrink,
he would have just cut me open, right there.
That’s all they want to do.
Cut you open.
Even when you don’t need it.
It’s so they’ll get paid.
Like they need more money.
I’m lucky in that regard.
That he was a head doctor.
A witch doctor.
Where is this office of his, anyway?
This is all brownstones, on this street.
These are people’s HOMES, for god sake.
Maybe he LIVES in his office…
These buildings all look the same.
How can I forget where something is?
I was just there last week,
When he gave me these nasty pills.
But it’s about the ANGLE, isn’t it?
How you come IN upon something…
And it’s about context.
And I was walking in from Copley last time.
Not from Mass. Ave.
Why is the South End so confusing?
They just paved over the cow paths when they made this city.
That’s what they did.
Boston is just a bunch of cow paths.
For a cow like me.
Where IS this guy?
Why is everyone staring at me?
Shut up, Estelle.
It’s the pills, those fucking…
I don’t like these pills.
These are NOT good.
It’s some sort of reaction.
Just find the doctor’s office.
It’s around here somewhere.
Everyone is talking on a cell phone.
Why is that?
What could be THAT important?
You’re just jealous,
because you don’t have someone in your life like that,
someone to call on your cellphone
while you’re walking down the street.
In your skin tight, glittering gown.
You just need a new prescription.
Just tell him: “These pills do NOT work.”
I need to go back to the old ones.
The old pills.
I don’t know him, that’s the problem.
And he doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my body.
How my mind works, all that gray murkiness up there.
That’s the problem, really.
That’s the trouble with getting a new doctor.
I liked my old doctor.
But he was TOO old.
What sort of doctor has the nerve to DIE before you do?
It’s really just thoughtless.
And now this new doctor wants to change everything.
And these new pills aren’t working.
I like the old pills.
I like my old doctor.
My old, dead doctor.
I should be married and be loved, by now.
Because that’s a marker.
Is that what that’s called?
Getting married, having children?
Because I have none of those things, and I’m 34.
How difficult it is to find someone to be with when you’re 34?
Don’t answer that.
Bond girls don’t get married.
They don’t need anyone.
And some lip gloss.
I have got to change this prescription.
These pills are NOT working.
I’m set in my ways.
That’s part of it.
I don’t like new things.
I have my yoga classes, and I like to eat certain things at certain times.
I flirted with anorexia for a while in college, but who didn’t?
I just like cheese too much.
I think you should take a right here.
Take a left.
Down that street.
It seems nice.
And the air is so brisk right now.
And I’m not in a hurry to get home, am I?
Why am I repeating myself?
It’s like a song.
Da da da da da.
It’s hard to walk on these brick sidewalks.
I wonder if Cheryl is home.
I want to murder Cheryl.
I have dreams of murdering Cheryl.
Is that strange, to want to murder your roommate?
I think it would be strange NOT to want to murder your roommate.
Why do I have a roommate?
Am I 35?
I don’t remember.
What sign am I?
When is that?
What am I going to be for Halloween this year?
I was a sexy nurse last year.
Maybe I’ll be a sexy secretary.
Or a sexy scientist.
Like the one in “Moonraker”.
Who was the Bond Girl in “Moonraker”, anyway?
Why am I thinking of that?
My father loved James Bond movies.
My Father is dead.
I forgot all about that!
Thanks a LOT, new pills!
Do I want to get married?
Take a left, and then a right.
And then go straight.
You’re almost there.
(British accent) “Why Mr. Bond, however did you get in here…?”
This is the street where you saw the two dachshunds that one time.
And you saw the two guys holding hands, and you thought: oh my god, its two GUYS,
and they’re HOLDING HANDS,
and it IS the South End, after all,
but I thought all the gays had moved out by now.
And the yuppies had moved in.
I’d rather have the gays than the straights.
I don’t like baby carriages, in cafes.
They take up SO much ROOM.
And those babies CRY.
And it sounds like murder.
And If I’m paying 8 dollars for a cup of soup.
I want to eat it in silence.
And then right.
Should I go into this convenience store?
I need some lip balm.
On my lips.
She played Dr. Goodhead!
I hope she’s happy, somewhere.
My Dad would have known that.
I would call him on my cell phone right now.
If he wasn’t so dead.
Lip balm always makes my lips even MORE chapped.
Why is that?
Am I going crazy?
Those pills aren’t working.
The new ones.
I’ll have to tell her that.
These new pills.
It’s a juggling act, I know.
That last time, those TERRIBLE pills.
And I was up all night.
And I painted the living room green.
And all the furniture too.
And Cheryl had a fit.
Because I painted her futon.
Who has a futon these days?
It’s SO 1987.
It just seemed like a good idea, at the time.
But it’s was really the pills.
They just weren’t working.
But maybe these pills aren’t working either.
I’m feeling a little anxious.
It’s OK to be anxious. There’s nothing wrong with that.
And guys can hold hands.
And I know this is crazy.
But if they weren’t gay.
Maybe one of them would be dating me.
And I wouldn’t be so lonely
And taking pills
And plotting to kill my roommate.
And dreaming of Bond girls.
So, in a way
This is all the Gays fault.
I wonder if Cheryl is a lesbian?
Maybe we could get drunk together and explore that one night.
Feminine sexuality is so fluid.
Would I seduce her?
Would she seduce me?
Would that villain watch us?
And stroke his white Persian cat?
All Bond villains were gay.
And liked cats.
And then they moved to the South End of Boston.
And found a boyfriend.
And held hands.
All eight of them.
What the fuck does that MEAN?
Where is the door?
I need to get to this appointment NOW.
These pills don’t work.
And I’m anxious.
And I’m talking to myself.
But it’s all in my head.
I’m just talking in my head.
Not out loud.
Because then people would stare at me.
But why do I feel like someone is listening?
Like they can hear me?
Like they can listen to my thoughts?
Why is everyone on a cell phone?
Are they listening to me?
You’re crazy Estelle.
They aren’t spies.
You aren’t a Bond girl.
I should stop in the convenient store and get a roll of tin foil.
Tin foil blocks the cell phone transmitters.
Like the time the aliens were going to kidnap that doctor.
The Bond girl
Dr. Holly Goodhead.
Oh, I get it now: her name is a double entendre!
It means she’s going to fuck James Bond’s brain out in space later on in the movie.
Which she does.
Oh Ian Fleming, you’re such a cad!
Dr. Goodhead. Ha ha.
Pussy Galore. Ho Ho.
Why did I never notice that before?
I have to say: I find the sexism and homophobia of James Bond films
I miss it.
Like I miss my pills.
My old pills.
For my old head.
My good head.
From my dead doctor.
I wish I had a good head.
I wish my head would stop.
Where am I?
I’m still in the South End, still.
All the brownstones look the same.
I need to find that office.
I need to find my Doctor.
But all the offices looks like homes.
I need to go home.
Fix my head.
I need people to stop calling my head.
Listening to me talking
In my head.
My good head.
Maybe if I took another pill.
Where are they?
Damn, I have to organize this bag.
I’m like a hobo.
Why am I carrying double A batteries around?
Here they are.
Maybe if I take just one, it will stop this.
I need some water.
Maybe I can stop into the convenience store and get a Fresca
And some tin foil and some lip balm
I’ll just chew the damn thing.
Down the hatch.
Maybe that will stop the -