I've been dreading this. But I think it's time to introduce me into the plot. Or rather, the character of me. Because this isn't going to be just a story about a murderer. It's a story about me. It's a story about Rita.

It always is, you know. I can pretend it's not. Sometimes there's a benefit to that. To pretending it's not. But as far as I'm concerned, there is no story unless it's a story about me. So I'm just going to put myself right in it this time. Use the same name and everything. And I'll describe the way I look, too. The straight brown hair I used to part in the center, but now I part on the side. The thin lips. The fact that I've only come up to the chest of every man I've ever dated. And sometimes I'll be graphic. And it won't necessarily be pretty. The way my skin sags around my belly now. The laugh lines underneath my brown eyes. Some things won't look good. To you. To myself. To anybody.

And that's the beauty of fiction: you can do something like that, and you can paint things as ugly as you want, and when it gets to be a little too much even for you to bear, you just throw up your hands and say, Hey, it's not me, it's the character.

And let me just state for the record: It's never me. It's always the character.

For instance: it's the character who drinks on top of her pills. Not me.

You see how this game works?


I guess I find it more difficult admitting to my physical undoing than my mental one. That probably says something about me. I should try to highlight that somehow.

My doctor says not to, of course. Not to drink on top of the pills. Probably because it's fun. Things that are fun are usually bad for you. Or ill-advised. She says the two things together, the pills and the alcohol, could really fuck with my judgement. And my ability to stand upright. I understand. Doctors normally advise against things like this.

But I've already told you where I come down on that.


I'm sorry for being so unfocused. The snow has me a little stir-crazy. And I've been in a frenzied state of list-making, as you can see. It's usually how I piece together my writing. Lists...on pieces of paper, which I keep about my desk, or on the coffee table, or in the bathroom.

The fact that I haven't been able to get out and see anybody hasn't helped with my clearness of mind. My friends. My bartender. I miss them. Of course, there's Mike. I could see him. But some things seem too dangerous, even for somebody like me. I'm old enough to know a man like him is no good for me. I'm also old enough to know that that's what makes him the perfect kind.

Also, I've already fucked myself twice today. So...there's that. And besides, I'd have to shave my legs.

At least I have TV. And vodka.

And smart balls. See, there's a good example: my doctor would probably advise against keeping smart balls inside myself all afternoon. But that's because she's probably never done it. So she wouldn't know. She wouldn't know that getting up to grab ice cream from the freezer takes on a whole new meaning this way. And she wouldn't know that if I turn my slimline on and use it to tug gently on the string, that it sends this soft vibration up and through. She wouldn't know that shit. They don't teach it in med school. I'm pretty sure.

So let me tell you about the writing for a second...

I just wrote this scene where Mike's ex wife (I'll need to think of a name for her) comes out to his cabin to talk to him about their daughter. Talking about how she (the daughter) cries at night and how she (the ex) doesn't know what to do about it and...See? See what you've done to our daughter's life? And he says something like, Me? Why's it always me...You wanted the divorce, not me. And she says, Are you kidding me? You wanted the divorce when you decided to sleep with your slutty students. And they're standing there having this argument, and it's just starting to snow. And these light flakes circle around them. And the air, it has that damp quality to it. I use some good language to describe that. Really. And then, then Mike says something mean and his ex just fucking hits him. Not a slap either. A fucking fist. Right to his cheek. And I have this line for it, the way it sounds when she hits him. It's like...well, I can't remember it now. But it's good, I'm telling you. And then they struggle a bit and wind up having rough sex on the living room floor. And look, I'm not trying to be a romance writer. Or even an erotic one. But sometimes sex is just what comes out. Okay, usually it is.

Hold on...


Okay, sorry. Anyway, the gist of the thing is that it makes Mike kind of crazy, this on-again, off-again thing he has with his ex. Because he still loves her. How she knows what to say. And just how to say it. And the way she smells and the way she moans and the way she...hits. And it's sort of tragic, is what I want to get at. You know? How he can't stand her leaving him afterwards to go back to him, this guy she's married to now. This fucking accountant. Living in some pleasant neighborhood in a handsome house surrounded by other handsome houses. With their SUV in the driveway and their goddamned fence. And taking care of his kid. His kid. And they probably have sex 1.5 times a week in their king-sized bed before watching Letterman or opening their books to read. And so I'm thinking that it's for all these reasons that the ex might make a good murderee. Either her or the new husband. Or both? Or would that all be too cliched? Sort of OJ Simpson-like. The problem with writing is when you think too much about it and it all sounds like something you've heard before. Probably because it is. I'm sure if I just put the stuff down on paper I'd be able to see it better. And I'd be able to tell what sucks and what doesn't. I'm way better at editing than I am at creating.

Wait a minute...


Ah...the big happy. God that word makes me cringe. And here's pretty much all I've figured out about happiness in my thirty-six years on this earth: I tend to look for it in the wrong places. Underneath clinking tumblers of vodka tonics or the bottom of shot glasses. Or while on top of skinny bartenders.

I know they're the wrong places. It's just at the time they feel right. They always do.


I've been thinking lately about how Hemingway and I would have made great friends. He wouldn't have ever gotten too close. And I would have loved him and hated him for that. I really fucking would have.

Category: Fallout