Su­pervil­lain Lover is a screen­play I’ve been work­ing on.

It’s about a young woman who once loved a su­per­hero, but is now forced to be­come the hero her­self, when all she wants to do is fly away.

It has ac­tion (per­haps too much ac­tion), vi­o­lence,…

I’m not a fem­i­nist.

I think fem­i­nism is awe­some. I want to be a fem­i­nist.

I read some—not enough, but some. I keep up-to-date on cur­rent events. I do my best to be aware of the ills in the so­ci­ety around me. I try to watch for sex­ism. I try to see…

You don’t know what the fuss is about. It’s not like they stopped you from touch­ing the clothes be­fore, back when they were still on the body. Why are you at any more risk of con­t­a­m­i­nat­ing the ev­i­dence now than then?

Fed up with the bull­shit, you…

“Amer­i­ca’s Next Vam­pire,” screams the poster. Some sort of tele­vised com­pe­ti­tion. You sigh.

For awhile, you had thought vam­pires were the only mag­i­cal group with sense. Ap­par­ently, you were wrong. Dear lord, to what lengths cer­tain vam­pire sects…

It’s an empty ware­house.

One gi­ant room.

It could be more.

So it is.

And when they drag in the girl, they don’t place her in a ware­house. They place her in a tiny room.

It’s a small, un­com­fort­able room with pol­ished white tiles, shiny un­com­fort­able…

You lick the ic­ing off the cup­cake.

That’s what cup­cakes are good for: they are ic­ing de­liv­ery ve­hi­cles.

Yet there’s also that cake part. You never know what to do with the cake part.

It re­minds you of what once was; of the ic­ing; of the sweet­ness,…

Some­times, the ones who blame the vic­tims the most are the vic­tims them­selves–but even for that, it is not they who de­serve blame, but the cul­ture that points them to their shame.

You think you are alone. You have too many thoughts to truly be so.

Many thoughts are sealed away, and yet still their noise sur­rounds you as a shroud of im­pen­e­tra­ble agony.

You hate them.

You grab them with a thought, and twist them, glare at them.

Their…

Watch­ing The Gold Rush leaves one with many ques­tions: When did The Lone Prospec­tor die? Was he al­ready dead when the film be­gan? Was the en­tire film just one big hal­lu­ci­na­tion—or just parts of it? Why is a film fea­tur­ing a char­ac­ter death so…

You’re cer­tainly in a pickle.

You can’t see a thing. You can’t move an inch.

You can, in fact, hear.

You can hear quite a bit. You can hear the blood rush­ing through your head; you can hear your heart pound­ing. You can hear your body as it tries its hard­est…