Shockaholic

by Carrie Fisher

There are stars whose radiance is visible on Earth though they have long been extinct. There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for humankind. —Hannah Senesh, poet, playwright, and paratrooper (1921–1944)

“There’s no room for demons when you’re self-possessed”?

Now, I am not a stupid person. I’m a fairly intelligent person who does stupid things.

Mood.

I wish I could explain—and armed with that explanation, somehow excuse—the seemingly unending, ongoing, relentless, inordinately intense, pathetic fixation I have with my feelings.

I’ve always wished that I was someone who really didn’t care what I looked like, but I do. And yet, even though I end up caring about it almost more than absolutely anything, it takes way more than a lot to get me to do anything about it.

Now, I’ve always heard that one of the most important things in life is to be comfortable in one’s own skin. Well, I may have unconsciously come to the not illogical conclusion that the more skin you have, the more comfort you’ll feel!

And, if my alleged resemblance to Elton John turns out to be a problem for anyone out there, all I can really say (politely and in a sing-song voice) is “blow my big bovine, tiny dancer cock!”

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.

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.

Repeated exposure to anything renders it increasingly ordinary. The same especially holds true for what might otherwise (or initially) be considered extraordinary. Sort of like “too much of a good thing.” The charm wears off, the bloom shakes off the rose, and it’s midnight at Cinderella’s ball.

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.

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.