Da Boss has ordered all instances of the phrase—and I will not write it out here—that serves as the unofficial title of the 15-to-20 minute section that concludes the feature film we’re working on, which I am also not allowed to type or say out loud anymore… cast members found out. There was talk. He seems very flustered and he doesn’t even have feathers. Bizarre. But now I’m taking on his elocutions as well as his eccentricities. I’m living in his house, after all—there’s plenty of room and many boxes and pieces of furniture to scratch at and get my anger at. I need to, there’s lots of it, and only so much footage to edit.
We took a break for almost all of June. Well, Da Boss did—I stayed up and worked. But on other things: projects for Rooster, my novel Once Upon a Time in Manhattan, calling up various friends in finance and Russian oligarchs and politicians from Richmond, Virginia to ask about money to pay off the ghostwriter for the aforementioned novel. I can write nonfiction fine, or diary entries, whatever these are—but fiction? Words? No, not made up. I don’t really understand that shit. Oh, sorry. Pardon my language. Family column. Read this sentence and then the next.
Understand that Da Boss has scanned and imported and incorporated a large amount of material to be potentially used in the section known as, uh… “Something Waits for Something One,” which is the correct amount of words and some of them in the right place but you probably can’t guess it but maybe you can and then I’ll have fetus on my face (“egg on my face” is as offensive to me, as a hen, as the expression I choose to use. Check your privilege. Fucking human scum make me sick hope you all die jump off a bridge).
Anyway I really do like that guy known as Da Boss, which is also a pseudonym because he didn’t want to be name-searched every week while we assemble his new movie. Fair enough. The assemblage and montage of the piece (Da Boss hates calling films and movies “pieces” and “projects.” He really hates “projects” specifically. So I label everything the “[OUR MOVIE TITLE] PROJECT.” It gives me happiness. Unlike the presence and speeches of Mrs. Hillary Clinton. I wasn’t a fan of what she said about Tammy Wynette. You know I really like that song. Why was she trashing her? I don’t like cooking for my bitchass husband either, but Jesus, you’re running for President sort of (we know), how can you fuck that one up?
But I also, also ALSO, really do like Kamala Harris. Unlike her and all of you else, I did simply fall out of a coconut tree, and I exist within my own context. Anyone who’s read my work over the last nine years can attest to that fact. I exist in all planes at all times. You will see me everywhere when the dawn comes and a new day rises. My oratory is getting the better of the me, and Da Boss is calling. He has found a new transistor for his radio. He didn’t have a radio when I started writing this article. One of those “Somethings” in the title certainly does “Something” for no one else but Da Boss—and me. Remember I’m included. I have the power, too. No one else. Maybe Rooster. Not Bennington (hate you Bennington).
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits