One day I'm going to take everything ugly and funny and beautiful and real in my life and put it out there, and it's going to blow the fuck up. I have to believe that, even if I feel paralyzed by my own inertia right now, I have been calmer and more creative, having actual ideas and executing them with varying degrees of success. I can feel myself beginning to pan out, take the final shots for my memory so I will still remember it as poetically as this later, when there are no real faces to remind me. I also must insist to myself that everyone is, potentially, as crazy as I am. And after all of this, after I have received critical acclaim and appear in the pages of Black Book or Flaunt, when Benicio and I are finally together, I'm sure Vanity Fair will ask him, what is it about her that you love so much? And he will pause, laugh a private little laugh with himself, smile and look up. He will meet the interviewer in the eye and he will say something like, "It's like the part at the end of "Hey Jude" when John Lennon is screaming," and laugh again, and I will live as though I have finally achieved the far-flung victories of rock and roll love, once and for all.

I just want to be the girl (or the scream) in the song.