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Somewhere in the last few years—and I can’t pinpoint exactly when—a vague yet almost overwhelming and irrational annoyance started tearing through me maybe up to a dozen times a day. This annoyance was over things so seemingly minor, so out of my usual field of reference, that I was surprised by how I had to take a deep breath to dismantle this disgust and frustration that was all due to the foolishness of other people: adults, acquaintances and strangers on social media who offered up their rash opinions and judgments, their mindless preoccupations, always with an unwavering certitude that they were right. A toxic attitude seemed to drift off every post or comment or tweet whether it was actually there or not. This anger was new, something I’d never experienced before—and it was tied in with an anxiousness, an oppression I felt whenever I ventured online, a sense that I was going to somehow make a mistake instead of simply offering an opinion or make a joke or criticize someone or something. This idea would have been unthinkable ten years earlier—that an opinion could become something wrong—but in an infuriated, polarized society people were blocked because of these opinions, and unfollowed because they were perceived in ways that might be inaccurate. The fearful began to instantly see the entire humanity of an individual in a cheeky, offensive tweet and were outraged; people were attacked and unfriended for backing the “wrong” candidate or having the “wrong” opinion or for simply stating the “wrong” belief. It was as if no one could differentiate between a living person and a string of words hastily typed out on a black sapphire screen. The culture at large seemed to encourage discourse but social media had become a trap, and what it really wanted to do was shut down the individual. What often activated my stress was that other people were always angry about everything, presenting themselves as enraged by opinions that I believed in and liked or thought were simply innocuous. My pushback against all of this forced me to confront a degraded fantasy of myself—an actor, as someone I never thought existed—and this, in turn, became a constant reminder of my failings. And what was worse: this anger could become addictive to the point where I just gave up and sat there exhausted, mute with stress. But ultimately silence and submission were what the machine wanted.
— from the beginning of White, Bret Easton Ellis.*
* Yes, this is all one paragraph in the original. – M
A letter story after Bret Easton Ellis.
The funeral was horrible. And you want me to say it wasn’t. And I want that, too. But every time I lie, I feel worse. I don’t blame you.
What to do. Where to be. What we should have done. How it all might have been better. Or different. Or maybe just not so bad. I think about this shit all the time. I should stop thinking.
So you’re out in Spain. That’s cool. Spain gets you away from all this. It’s a good choice. Seriously. And I hope Patty’s making it. At least, I hope she’s physically alright. Have some gazpacho for me, okay?
This morning, early, I drove out to Mount Lee, hiked up behind the Hollywood sign, looked out between the L and the Y where it happened. The air was pretty clear and I could see all the way to downtown. Of course, Bella didn’t come. She won’t even say Alisa’s name.
Bella’s been drinking a lot more now. She looks pissed off all the time. But you understand, right? I mean, you and Patty went to Spain. Drunk is Bella’s Spain.
There’s nothing up there now. No police tape. Not even trash since it rained. All gone. I thought I’d put some flowers down, but I forgot to get any. So I just stood there and thought about the funeral. I can’t begin to explain how depressing it was. Trust me, Spain was a good move.
One thing Bella said two weeks ago, when we had our first big relationship-defining fight that we’re still calling a conversation: “Alisa was a money-hungry talentless slut and this was about attention.” That was Stupid Drunk Bella going on. You know.
I broke my hand that night after she took off. I don’t know why because we weren’t even screaming. I had some klonopin. We were in the living room with the lights off, trying to talk about boundaries or some shit and whether I should get my own place. It seemed like we were making progress for about 10 minutes. But now the Toyota needs a new passenger window.
I think about Alisa for no reason at all. About all of us, really. You two were hooking up and, no, you don’t have to deny it. We’re beyond that and you’re in Spain. So don’t worry. Nobody’s going to tell Patty. I think that’s why Bella hates Alisa. I keep telling her it’s ridiculous to hate a dead person.
I was fucking Bella behind Alisa’s back and you were fucking Alisa behind Patty’s back. And all we did was sneak around and fuck each other and lie to each other. We were so much better when we were friends just living together and failing at life. What happened?
They had an open casket. It was a bad decision. The bullet did things to Alisa’s face that makeup couldn’t fix. I thought her cousin was going to puke when she walked up to view the body. Alisa was too pretty to have an open casket like that. I don’t know what the logic was there. I can’t get it out of my head.
Bella and I are still together, even after everything, because I think it’s just easy. It’s easier than sleeping in our old bedrooms and having to be polite and pretend. I guess we’re sleeping in the same bed and doing that. She’s auditioning all the time. I think she’s in a commercial for some kind of bean dip. You should google her. She’s good. But she doesn’t make me want to buy the bean dip.
I’m still waiting tables at Earth. It’s boring, but I don’t have to be home a lot that way, which I know is a fucked up kind of therapy. But I guess it works well enough. I go up to Mount Lee a few times a week. I can’t sleep.
I found the video of the camping trip we took last summer. I’m attaching it in case you care. I don’t recommend it unless you actually like feeling bad, but I looked at it a few days ago. I was in the living room, playing it on my laptop and crying a little, when Bella came in. She just got the lead in the new Mata Hari opening at the Vantage because someone poisoned the person ahead of her. She was in a good mood for once, singing, twirling around the room, which made me break down in a complete mess. Things didn’t really go anywhere that night in terms of human decency. She says she still wants to be with me. She just doesn’t want to live with me. I don’t want to live with me, either.
If you were here, I guess I’d ask what you think, if you have an opinion on any of it. But I seriously do not want you to write an email back to me like this one and talk about Alisa’s suicide. I know you don’t want to. I don’t even expect you to have read this far. I wouldn’t. Just enjoy Spain and be nice to Patty. Drink a lot of beer. Go to a museum.
I keep having this thought. I keep thinking that I knew Alisa was going to do it, that I was watching her slip away, and I didn’t do anything. Why? I don’t understand how we could just let her get worse and worse. Like when she didn’t get the part in Veracity and took all your valium. I mean, what the actual fuck was that?
Bella says it was about attention, but why weren’t we paying attention? It fucks me up. And how did she get a gun? Nobody knows a thing. You want to guess about that one for me? Because I know it wasn’t mine. I’ve never owned one in my life. We were up our own asses is the answer, which is no answer at all but still absolutely true.
Last week, I hiked Mount Lee just before dawn. L.A. looked like a bunch of orange stars under a black sky. I was thinking that more people have killed themselves in this town than all the lights you can see from there. It’s morbid and it’s also beautiful. Like Alisa. We should start naming the lights the way we name the constellations. I’m probably going to keep going there. Because what else is there? Maybe some morning I’ll be able to figure out which light is her.
