Shockaholic

by Carrie Fisher

And, over time, this fucking thing punched the dark lights out of my depression. It did for me what drugs had done for me. It was like a mute button muffling the noise of my shrieking feelings. Your whole life you hear about this terrifying treatment that turns you into a vegetable, only to finally find out that it had all the charming qualities of no big deal. Sort of like getting your nails done, if your nails were in your cerebral cortex.

But to be a feast for an army of snacking eyes requires devoting enormous chunks of your time to denying yourself on the one hand and forcing yourself on the other.

Nor did Senator Dodd—like most people, then, now and always—have any idea who I was in the wide, wide world beyond this cute little actress who’d played Princess Leia. And, what did it matter? That is who I was. Maybe not to myself, but then I won’t be consulted on that future day when my death is reported and a picture of Princess Leia will appear on television with two dates under my absurdly bewigged face.

What you’ll have of me after I journey to that great Death Star in the sky is an extremely accomplished daughter, a few books, and a picture of a stern-looking girl wearing some kind of metal bikini lounging on a giant drooling squid, behind a newscaster informing you of the passing of Princess Leia after a long battle with her head.

Given what I’ve told you so far, you won’t be surprised to learn that, in addition to Harry’s previously catalogued attributes, he was also a lifetime member of the Frequent Farter Club. He rarely spoke, apparently preferring to converse flatulently. He communicated in Morse code from his ass.

Because there is something in me that is joyous, that’s joyful. I don’t hate hardly ever, and when I love, I love for miles and miles. A love so big it should either be outlawed or it should have a capital and its own currency.

We shared a love for escape from reality, a sense that any reality one found oneself in could, and should, be improved.