swallow me

save me

love me

kill me

swallow me

Tender Monster Destiny

Tender Monster Destiny

            Hope Street is a street just like any other in Los Angeles, except that its name makes it seem promising.  A useless person sitting in his or her car at a stop light and seeing that they are about to intersect Hope would probably think, Could this be a sign?

            Are there plain white college boys hidden in apartments on this street, writing screenplays for a movie they’re going to make someday for Public Television about their L.A. experience?

            The name makes this street sound full of action and import, a street with a secret, a street that lives out its charm with the clean bend of palm trees and Hopscotch formations drawn on its pavement.

            It was on this street that Joe’s car passed Judy and John Freshflower, the ex-proprietors of a Chinese restaurant that used to be next door to Joe’s store.  It’s Christmastime, and these are Christmases lived covertly in the lives of our imaginings, our imaginings being the sanctuary against what’s real down here. 

            From the age of seven, I knew I wanted to be famous.  I wanted to be the Beatles, so that I wouldn’t have to lay in bed listening to them on the radio, growing anxious thinking of how I would never be able to express in words the way their songs on the radio made me feel nostalgia even for the present moment. I wanted all the other people who were listening to the radio at the same time as me to be listening to songs sung by me, and I would sing songs about their favorite memories, of a father wearing a Santa Claus beard, a hydrangea bush peeking out from under a blanket of snow, going on a game show, drinking beer with a first boyfriend.

I didn’t become famous.  I became a typist in a mortuary.  The antique shop Joe owned went out of business, and he became an old man working at McDonald’s. 

Tender. Monster.  Destiny.  At night when the curve of a freeway overpass moves your body closer to death and waitlessness, the lit-up McDonald’s seen down below seems the perfect beacon.  I’ve been to McDonalds’ throughout the country but I was never an adventurer.  I was an agoraphobic who would tell my hosts when they’d get home from work that I spent the whole day feeling out the city, when really I’d spend the day sleeping the sleep of store-bought pills I got in a 30%-off bin at the grocery store Nora and I used to live near.

       In college, my roommate Nora and I ended up with two cats, Blackie and Rose White. The grass and wildflowers in our back yard grazed the low slopes of hanging clotheslines. We mostly slept over at her boyfriend’s house because our own house lacked panache and never had any food in the fridge.  She’d pull her car into the space next to the trash bin, and Blackie and Rose White would gallop through the weed jungle to     greet us.  Nora and I referred to the cats as our family, though we often forgot to feed them.  Rose White ran away, and one morning I found Blackie curled up behind an old paint can in the garage, dead.

            Judy and John Freshflower owned the Chinese restaurant near Joe’s old antique shop.  What Joe and I had was the surrogate father and daughter relationship that could only be shared by a man who thought he drank too much to have his own family, and the daughter of a woman abandoned by a man who’d said he was just going out for a pack of cigarettes, just like all the fleeing husbands of the nineteen-fifties are purported to have said to their wives.  What Joe and I had with Judy and John Freshflower was the kind of friendship that people sharing the same small square of carpet in a giant city develop.  When Joe would babysit me at his shop, he’d park in a lot overlooking the alley behind his and the Freshflowers’ businesses.  Often, exiting the car, we’d find Judy sitting at the wire table she’d set up in the alley, drinking tea from the blue kettle on the table’s yellow tablecloth.

            One time, she let Joe pass ahead of me a little bit before stopping me.  “Young girl, I would like to show you something.”  This was our first moment.  Judy grinned a big, Americanized grin.  “Are you ready?” she asked.  She pulled back the yellow tablecloth, and there, sitting under the table, was Blackie.

            I did not know who he was then.  I didn’t yet know about time travel.  Then, I was just a quiet eleven year old. I wore my pink satin baseball-style jacket with the denim heart sewn on the back and my name written in cursive letters with fabric paint in the middle of the heart.  Years later, I would go to college in another town, where Kurt Cobain’s ghost never walked me to Planned Parenthood but where the ghost of a happier rock star would tell me, “Hey, take it easy.  You’re young and life is so cool!” and I would never listen.  Years later, I understood what Judy had revealed to me that day in the alley.  Immortality.  Tender destiny.

            The day mom realized dad was never coming back with his cigarettes, she walked to Joe’s shop and invited him out for drinks, his treat.  She was pretty and complex.  He remained her best friend through all of the new boyfriends she met and walked away from.  There was a schizophrenic with a beard, who glued covers of mystery novels to pieces of cardboard and sent them through the mail to our subdued apartment in the valley, where we dutifully threw them in the trash and wished out loud that he would not stalk us.  There was an artist with worn-through long-sleeved shirts and silky hair, who jumped up and down on the Murphy bed with me one night when I couldn’t get to sleep, and ruined holidays with his moodiness.  There was a Vietnam Vet who was homeless when we first met him.  There was a lawyer who used to live in New York in the apartment where Rosemary’s Baby was filmed.

            Joe was the man who drove me to and from school when mom was at work, and who drove me from school to her work, to pick her up.  For awhile, Joe and I had a routine of stopping every Tuesday morning before school at a small bakery, for cheese danishes.  “Does the woman who worked there still remember us?” the little-girl-me who wanted to be famous asks.  We also had a routine of going to a video arcade after school on Fridays, and one of renting movies from the Central Library.

            Tender.  Our longest-running routine was of waiting in a park near mom’s office for her to get off work.  The drive there from my school was a drive through Mexican neighborhoods with colorful tigers painted on grocery store signs and baby girls dressed like morning glories.  This was before mom started working at home.  Joe and I would sit together in the park, not talking, the actual moments as quiet and poignant as memories.

            Monster.  I am now the kind of young women who forgets to feed her cats, letting them run away or die.  When I moved back to L.A., I put my Bachelor’s Degree in a desk drawer, and, not foreseeing any way to ever become famous, became a typist.  Joe’s antique shop went out of business; eventually, the building was torn down.  I dream of that place, but without its electricity or walls, or its merchandise.  On the other side of the shop there used to be a bar called Nardi’s, with a juke box that played lovelorn songs by Elvis Costello and the Pretenders that we could hear through the wall as we sat in the shop, playing card games or checkers.  Now it feels like Elvis is dead.

            Destiny.  At a red light on Hope Street, on our way to a coffee shop where mom waits for us, Joe spots the Freshflowers and decide to pull over. 

            “Joe.  I haven’t seen you since the store got torn down.  How are you?  How have you been?”

            “Not so bad, John.  I was selling things on E-Bay for awhile but I wasn’t making enough money, so now I work at McDonald’s.  It’s…and you?  You guys moved the restaurant over to that marketplace across from the new Target, right?”

            “Yeah, but we’ve been having some trouble.  Actually, we’re closing down in a few weeks.  We’re going to have to find a location with cheaper rent.  But you have to come to the restaurant before it closes, have a meal on us.”

            “I certainly will,” Joe says, but he never makes it to that last meal. Christmas morning, he wakes up with the stomach flu, and once he has recovered, he finds Judy and John absent from the space where their wasted efforts occurred.  What matters, though, is this chance meeting on Hope Street.  Judy is carrying a purse made out of woven white plastic straw, with blue and red and yellow plastic flowers sewn on it.  “I have something for you, young lady,” she whispers in my ear, smiling.  Her purse moves with something alive inside of it.  I open the purse.  Dear god, it is Blackie.  

Sweetheart #8

Hello there, this here is issue #8 of my teenage dream fanzine, put out in December 1995.

Sweetheart #7

Hello Friends, this here is a scan of my teenage dream fanzine, Sweetheart #7, put out in Summer 1995. Thanks for reading!  

Yesteryou Chapter 27

27.

Molly disliked most of the people she called “normal.”  So much indifference and stupidity, such unthinking conformity to norms, it disgusted and scared her.  That's how she was raised, by parents who felt the same way felt about normal people.  But, she also had problems with the people she nicknamed "artists," people like her who rejected religion and mass-produced ideals and traditional gender roles.  The problem she saw with most of these fellow artists was a lack of passion.  There was no fight in them, like how liberal politicians always let themselves be bullied by conservatives.  Molly responded to the world as though making bullies aware that she could not be taken advantage of, and commonplace unfairnesses were experienced as personal affronts not to be accepted.  It turned out that Vivienne and Tess were unfairness vigilantes too.  When one of the two EMT's who came to pick up Rosie's body was hoisting her up by the shoulders to lift her onto the gurney, he said to the other EMT, who held Rosie by her stiff legs, "Hey Frank, how much you want to bet she was a whore?"

Tess yelled, "Are you kidding me, talking like that about her?  You respect her.”

"Okay, okay, It's not an insult ma'am, just a fact.  She probably was a whore.  I wasn’t trying to start nothing.  Do you know the deceased’s…” but Vivienne interrupted, "It's not what you said, it's your nonchalance that's bothering her.  And you could say ‘prostitute,’ you don’t have to say “whore” like that.  You’re the whore, handling death without letting it mean anything to you, just going through the motions.  Yes, we all knew the deceased.  She was our fucking soul sister." 

"Yeah!” boomed Molly, and she kicked the side of the ambulance. 

“Assholes!,” joined Tess, and she kicked the truck as well.  Vivienne watched them and laughed.  “Fuck you guys,” she said to the irritated men, and then she took Tess and Molly by their hands and led them running and laughing down the street, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to feel free and stronger than sadness, but fun while it lasted.  

Yesteryou Chapter 26

26.

Molly called the hotel room and reached George.  "Oh goodness, Molly, you sound so horrible, are you okay.  What happened?"

Rosie happened into this world roughly five years later than Beth but looked much older than Beth, because of how much time she spent in the sun, and her bad genetic luck, her hair gone prematurely gray by her mid-thirties.  The one conversation she and Vivienne had was mostly about movies.  Rosie had been drunk.  "Whenever a normal person (she meant someone who wasn't homelessly like herself) tries making acquaintances with me, it always makes me think of watching Midnight Cowboy; you now that movie?” 

"Mmm hmmm, it's a good one.  I used to go around telling people it was one of my favorites, actually, but really I love a happy ending.  Now that sadness is passé, I can be honest, I can say how much I like romantic comedies and children's films."  Vivienne took for granted that Rosie understood this type of self-deprecating, dryly conspiratorial intellectual talk, and that Rosie was catching all her cultural references, and Rosie did, she was.  Rosie was all things to all people, always, like Hollywood or the moon.  But she was also an acid casualty.  As they talked and Vivienne shot photos of her, Vivienne gently moved Rosie's head so that her chin was slightly raised, or guided her hands around a bouquet of yellow jonquils Vivienne'd bought at the Farmer's Market, subtly posing Rosie.  "Anyway," Vivienne continued, as Rosie seemed not to talk much but to enjoy posing for Vivienne, "when a 'normal' person tries making friends with you, and it makes you think of Midnight Cowboy, does in make you feel like a character in the film?" 

"No, it just makes me remember the thoughts I had when I saw the movie -- I used to have a fairly normal life, did things like go to the movies -- I knew the main characters, Joe Buck and Ratso, were just fictional, but still I felt so sorry for them the way they almost starved and then almost froze to death, with people who had so much money always near them, near enough to touch.  I used to live -- well -- somewhere else, I had a daughter, I had money until -- well anyway, I had that movie on VHS, and I used to watch it a lot.  Now when someone walks past me and decides to notice me, starts talking to me, I always imagine they're feeling sorry for me the way I felt sorry for Joe Buck and Ratso, but this life I have now, also, it feels unreal sometimes, unbelievable, I feel like I'm really just a character in a movie." 

"That's probably best, isn't it?  To not feel entirely entrenched in all this?"  Vivienne asked, sweeping her arms across the scene of broken bottles and the immobile, broken into car near them. 

"Probably," said Rosie.  "It feels pretty inane to take a philosophical stance on my situation right now, when I'm so hungry.  Do you have any food?"  

"No, I'm so sorry, I don't.  But here's 5 dollars.  And I'm sorry to be talking about homelessness like this, like it's abstract, I know it's your life, I'm just so curious about it, I feel I have so many questions to ask you."

"Well, it passes the time.  I like you.  Ask away."

Rosie wouldn't have minded any turn the conversation took.  A man she knew named Jack who liked to pass the time with her some afternoons gave her a bottle of a pill called Oxycontin the day before, as a gift.  One night they made love on the kitchen floor of an abandoned row house and it'd been the highlight of the past few years for him, so soothing, the warmth that emanated from her plump, stooped body.  The day Vivienne passed her on the sidewalk and stopped to talk with her and take photos of her, drawn in by the homeless woman's strange prettiness, was the last day for Rosie.  It was no longer bearable to be alive, and she would take the pills throughout the day, finished up the 9 that remained in the bottle shortly after the sky finally went gray and starless that night, a cover of clouds moving in like curtains hiding her final view of the constellations.

Ssssh.

Vivienne, Tess and Molly found Rosie's body camouflaged by the many hills and valleys created by the folds of the pile of blankets she used to sleep among.

Interview with writer Francesca Lia Block

photo by Nicolas Sage photography

When I was in sixth grade (in the early nineties), me and my mom bought a book called Weetzie Bat about a teenaged punk girl growing up in L.A., and I read it straight through, crying when I finished it, from exhilaration and the relief at having found such a blueprint for the person I wanted to become.  It really did change my life, both by helping me define a sense of aesthetics (I LOVED the title character’s punk-whimsical fashion) and by giving me a more positive outlook and the idea that I could and would lead a charmed life.  I did end up leading a charmed life after reading that book, and a lot of it was thanks to the author Francesca Lia Block, who graced my fan letters with prompt and engaged responses, and who, when I ended up being friends with her through a mutual friend a couple years later, would invite me to the readings and events that would make my month, or sometimes my year.  Over the years we lost touch, as happens, but I have of course remained a fan, making anyone I decided to really get close to read Weetzie Bat so they’ll know what informs my nostalgia when I miss some building or vibe that is gone from my hometown of Los Angeles, or when I miss some old sense of magic I grew out of due to some horrible practicality.  Prolific and adored by an enthusiastic fan base, Francesca remains approachable and kind.  Here is the interview she so sweetly granted me:

What inspired you to recently write the Weetzie Bat prequel Pink Smog, when the novel that introduced the character was written over 20 years ago? 

 I live with those characters almost every day because I've been writing and re-writing a WEETZIE screenplay for years and because my readers often send me Weetzie inspired images and stories. It felt natural to return to the characters and I always wanted to write about the 1970's, since most of my work takes place in the 80's, 90's and 2000's.

Over the years I’ve seen a lot of references to your work, often in the form of people using the slang your characters use in the Dangerous Angels series; if you google “Witch Baby, “Secret Agent Lover Man” or “Slinkster,” for instance, the search yields jewelry collections, blogs, photos of people dressed up like your characters for Halloween and a garage rock band.  What is the weirdest Weetzie reference you’ve ever come across, like have you ever seen a hotdog named after Slinkster Dog or met a couple who legally changed their names to Duck and Dirk?  Have you ever heard of any one naming a child after one of your characters?  

 Wow, I'd love to meet a hotdog named Slinkster or a couple named Dirk and Duck.  I haven't met a kid named Witch Baby or Weetzie which is probably a good thing.

Would you ever write another sequel to your science fiction novel Ecstasia?

No, but I always thought those novels would make interesting films. If I were to write them today I"d make them contemporary magical realism rather than straight fantasy.

I’m excited to read your most recent novel The Elementals; is your next book another adult novel or a return to Young Adult literature, and is it hard to draw the line between the two?  How do you draw that line?  What do you consider inappropriate for young adults that you enjoy writing about in novels intended for adults? 

It's an adult book. I don't think much about the differences as I'm writing. THE ELEMENTALS is a darker book with fairly graphic sexuality and an ambiguous ending so  it might not work for some younger readers but some of my more mature teen readers would like it, I think.  I try not to worry about what is appropriate or not and just write a strong story, then let others decide how to publish and distribute it.

Has there been a resolution to your Bank of America mortgage woes yet, and if not, is there anything that your fans can do to help?  Is there any petition people can sign online or anything like that?

Thank you! Thanks to my readers and friends and the power of the internet, I got my first loan modified and am now working on the second. For anyone in the same position, let me just say this:  Twitter is your friend!  

I’ve often heard people theorize that artistic talent is something that a person is born with and can’t  be taught.  As a writing teacher, do you find that to be true? 

 It can be taught! If you have the burning desire to create you can learn the tools to make something beautiful and powerful.  The key here is the burning desire.  That can't be taught.

If you hadn’t become a writer, what do you think you’d be doing professionally right now?  

I always wanted to be a therapist. I also love fashion design.  My latest interest is publishing so that I can get my students' work out there after I've helped them hone it.

Do you have a favorite character of yours?  If so, who?  I think all of your fans that I’ve known over the years have loved Witch Baby best, by the way. 

I love Witch Baby and I'm grateful to Weetzie for opening the door that let me in to the world of publishing.  Currently I'm kind of loving Pen from my upcoming novel LOVE IN THE TIME OF GLOBAL WARMING.

When do you know that a novel you’ve written is done?

When my editor tells me?

Years ago when I interviewed you when I was a teenager (in 1993 I think) I asked you if there was ever going to be a Weetzie Bat movie, and it was a maybe.  Do think there ever will be one, and if so, who would you cast as the main characters?  

My screenplay has been optioned so we'll see.  My dream cast keeps changing, getting too old. I used to want Joseph Gordon Levitt for My Secret Agent Lover Man. In the 80's I wanted Winona Ryder or Patricia Arquette for Weetzie.  I like Elle Fanning and Chloe Moretz now. They are young but by the time it gets made...? 

What is your least favorite thing about Los Angeles?  

Freeways, but I don't drive them very often, and almost never at rush hour.  Air quality, but it's better than when I grew up here.  The fact that it's difficult to meet people sometimes, especially if you work at home but I've started meeting some kindreds through my teaching at UCLA extension, Antioch and privately.

Yesteryou Chapter 25

25.

When Tess called Molly and told her about the homeless woman whose description in some ways resembled Beth, the first emotion to wash over her, before hopefulness that her mom was locatable, way joy that a girl her age was calling her.  Then they made plans to meet in the hotel lobby in half an hour.  Together, they would find Rosie, and Molly would identify her as Beth. 

***

"Where did it go?  That yester glow?

When we could feel

The wheels of life turn our way?

Yesterme Yesterou Yesterday."

George could imagine Beth living on the street, under a bridge, two different ways.  He could imagine her starving to death, growing dizzy in the heat, in -- what outfit would she have chosen?  But he could imagine a converse scenario that involved her experiencing her surroundings the intense way children usually do, fully interested in the sensory experience of a thing; she could be sitting blocks away from him, keeping track of the nuanced blues and purples of the changing sky.  Really, he was afraid she was dead.  He'd seen her with her heart beating way too fast and also, other times, way too slow, from pills.  He'd put her to bed, many times, and stayed up to wait for her breathing to stabilize.  And now she might be dead, which is when someone is literally impossible to get in touch with, forever, and more than anything, he wanted to get in touch with her.  

***

"Why do I do the things I do?  I truly don't understand the motivation of so many of my actions.  I'm a generous, smart, even a patient woman, really, but whenever I open my mouth (not counting when I'm talking to myself, to my kitties or to God), it's always greed, immaterial material desires, and bumbling.  Shopping, shopping and more shopping.  Avoiding Molly's calls because I know how much she hates me.  Eating nothing but candy and beef jerky.  I hate myself.  I wish I were dead so many days.  Why did mother have to raise me so awfully?" 

That is an excerpt from Beth's diary.  See, she meant well. She was always meaning to behave better than she did, but her self-awareness of the shortcomings of her outward behavior somehow never enabled her to change.

is this a review? 30 rock ends, the office winds down, i weep

a young Liz Lemon 

In a further dissection of my obsession with plotlines and constant various forms of entertainment, I have just got to say holy shit, what a bummer about last night’s NBC primetime line up of the final episode of 30 Rock and 2 new episodes of the Finale season of The Office.   I HATE when stories I like come to an end.  It makes me so nervous to get to the end of things, sometimes, that it’s like a physical thing; I got a nervous stomach ache shortly before these 2 ending shows that I’ve loved for years came on last night, and I wanted to ask my husband if we could not watch them, but I was brave (how crazy to use that word in reference to watching sitcoms!) and watched them anyway, and thanks to that, today I’m fixating on the passage of time all day and how it’s impossible to time-travel, how I’m getting inexorably older every second, etc. – I was all excited to do my blog this morning and I wanted to send interview requests to David Johansen, Patti Smith, Tavi Gevinson, and a famous writer I knew when I was a teenager, Francesca Lia Block.  Then I thought, “if I’m going to interview Tavi Gevinson, I should catch up on her blog first before sending her a request” so I looked through her 2 blogs Rookie and Style Rookie, and it was spirit-dampening and a wake up call that I’m not a teenager -- her blog is so vivid, and successful!  - she already has an interview with Francesca Lia Block on her blog.  Tavi, who is 16, feels things so passionately, the way I did when I was a teenager, and I feel some similarities between her current life and my teen years.  This young woman is pretty seriously famous for what she does, which is to creatively explore her own youth, through fashion, her blogs, installation art and other media – she’s been on Jimmy Kimmel to promote a book of her blog entries, and I learned about her from reading a NY Times profile, just to cite a couple examples of her fame (which must be an overwhelming phenomenon for such a young person!).  I was nowhere near as famous of course when I was her age, but I was in a band that got a modicum of attention, like enough to have fans that came from other counties to see us play and to receive a fan letter here or there, and my long-running zine got me a bit of notice, too.  Also, Tavi seems to be friends with a lot of grown ups who are also her patrons and helpers, and that was my situation as well.  My grown ups admired my creative output, the way I admire Tavi’s, but they’d also wistfully say things about how I should watch out or I might peek creatively in my teens, and that my creative energy was going to burn out a bit because teens are just crazy emotional creative psychos and even if they think these qualities are gonna last forever, they don’t.  anyway, the thrust of this little detour is that I’m old as shit and wish that i could freeze time or time travel like Billy Pilgrim does in Slaughterhouse 5.  And what got me focusing on all of this today is having to see the characters in 30 Rock and The Office go through changes last night.  I love to watch movies and shows and read novels because I love to escape from reality, but I feel a real let down when they end.  When Pee Wee’s Playhouse was on tv when I was a kid, it’d make me so overexcited sometimes I’d jump on the furniture while watching it.  But oh when Pee Wee says bye to the audience at the end of each episode, and the pretty closing credits soundtrack starts and you see him riding his bike across many beloved monuments, it made me so sad that the show was over for another weekend that I would sometimes cry or change the channel before the end.  And Harry Potter:  Deathly Hallows 2 … that shit was DEVASTATING.  I saw it in a really expensive theater that lets you reserve your seats in advance online because I wanted to make sure I had a good seat, and I was moodily pregnant at the time, so I weeped like you wouldn’t believe, but even if I hadn’t been pregnant, it still would have been almost too emotional to see those little magical kids all grown up and some of them being killed by bad guys and then to see their years-long adventure come to an end.  I wanted Harry Potter movies to be made literally forever.  

And with 30 Rock, it’s almost hard to believe that the characters I was invested in are dead now.  I can’t write about it as well as Matt Zoller Seitz does in his write up "The 30 Rock Finale Dared Us Not to Cry, and Knew We'd Fail," which I actively sought out this morning because I wanted to read something that’d help me digest the fact of the show ending!  

I love 30 Rock but I LOVE The Office.  I still get chills when I think about the moment when Pam and Jim first kiss.  I feel like people judge this show’s writing unfairly harshly and that it’s because the show is so consistently funny that people take it for granted.  I don’t understand people’s disloyalty and critical eye when it comes to something they like, and I always hear people say that The Office should have ended already, but people also say that the Stones are too old to keep touring, and why do people want to hate on longevity?  Even though the Stones haven’t written good music since the early 80’s, I can’t imagine a funner thing to do in one’s sixties than being a physically fit rock star who travels the world getting laid and adored and being creative and rich.  And with The Office, why should they have stopped already?  The writers have developed Andy from a joke to the new Jim, wistful-romantic-wise (when he wanted but couldn’t have Erin), to a hilarious asshole, while Dwight has gone from the antagonist to a lovable naif who has grown childishly attached to his former nemesis Jim, and the co-workers as a group started out as mutually indifferent acquaintances at first (for the most part), like my real life, but after so many seasons, the characters are all written to have a near-familial relationship to each other, to the point where actually doing work isn’t a part of the day anymore, and I wish my job was like that!  But also, it’s just a really sweet show, with an obviously smart and liberal voice, and an absurdist edge, and I love it.  But (SPOILER ALERT) last night’s two new episodes go further in wrapping up the characters’ stories by taking Jim and Pam (the show’s former romantic centerpiece), and separating them from each other more and more, as Jim leaves her part time to work at his dream job in Philly, and he’s revealed to be sort of obnoxious (he used to be the hero), and we find out that one of the documentary crew members in the faux documentary framework of the show has fallen in love with Pam over the 7 years he’s been following her around.  I’m totally uneasy at the prospect of the plot becoming this postmodern, because postmodernism is too trendy (as is disregarding postmodernism in favor of sincerity they way I’m doing right now), plus I want a happy ending for everyone, since that doesn’t happen in real life, where things aren’t ever resolved but instead go through happy and sad mutations that end only when a person dies.

Can someone promise me a show or film franchise that lasts literally forever?