Yesterday, I was working at the library, and a homeless man’s cell phone made a noise. The security guard told him to shut it off or he’s kicked out. A cop came in a little while later, probably just cooling off in the heat, and he played a noisy game on his phone for about 15 minutes. Nobody said a damn thing to the cop. Everyone deserves to come in out of the heat, but why do we have such a stringent hierarchy of tolerance for social customs? Rules should apply to all citizens. My tweet about that experience still has no likes. Is anyone listening?
I saw another homeless man when I was walking home from the 99 cent only store. I recognized him as the man I saved when he was unresponsive on another sidewalk a little over a month ago. He’s in a wheelchair, has no teeth, and one leg. When I found him the first time, he was passed out from drinking mouthwash (not too well disguised in an iced tea bottle), his pants were falling down over his diaper, and his genitals were exposed. I tried to communicate with him, but he couldn’t talk. I called the paramedics and waited with him until they showed up. Then I walked to work. I didn’t feel great that I saved him from dying that day, I felt terrible there were so many people just walking by him.
Yesterday, he didn’t have mouthwash. He sat in his wheelchair with his head in his hands and I asked him if he needed anything. He can’t really communicate at all. His brain seemed to be mush. I asked him if I should call the paramedics again, he gave me the finger. Well, he can communicate a little. I didn’t let it phase me. I walked across the street to the mall-area where some bicycle-riding security guards were. I asked if they could help him. One of them said no, on that side of the street, he’s out of their jurisdiction. I told them I helped him about a month ago.
“I can’t believe they just put him back out here. Doesn’t anybody care? If LA really wants to help the homeless, hire a team of medics to be out checking on people like him!” I told the security guards, who seemed to be on my side. Nobody likes to see people like him, but they’re also afraid to touch him and most people don’t know what to do to help anyway. I think that’s where the #AStarForCarrie Nonprofit is headed.
Not only do I want to hire a legion of cosplayers to petition for women’s rights issues, but I also want to provide basic first aid and medical training, make sure every petition team has supplies for the homeless: vitamins, socks, tampons, protein bars, water bottles, wet wipes, band-aids… There are so many ways creative people can help other than just collecting signatures and donations. I couldn’t figure out how to help that man last night, but it made me more determined to keep this project going.
Yesterday, I got an automatic reply email from a lady named Joy, who was (or maybe still is?) Seth MacFarlane’s PR agent, has left the PR company. Chris (Seth’s assistant) at Hairy Portal Productions told me on the phone that Joy was (maybe still is? I don’t know…) Seth’s agent for 15 years. Everything goes through her. I had sent Joy dozens of emails about #AStarForCarrie and #OccupyFamilyGuy, never received a response.
Did she get fired or did she quit? Was she the one who gave the order to have me arrested? Was she the one who suggested Seth MacFarlane create the pen name Dylan Brody because such intellectual writing wouldn’t “sell well” as Seth MacFarlane? Or is she just taking the fall because they all know they fucked up? How the hell should I know? This is all speculation. No one will communicate with me and every time I try to move on to something else, they pull me back in with some new crazy thing. I want to meet the real Seth because I believe he could answer a lot of questions and despite all this nonsense… I still love him. I want him to be free, be unafraid to be himself, to love himself as much as I love him. I hope he realizes that soon.
The “Wolf” character keeps texting me and he gets mad when I refuse to play the game and keep calling him Seth MacFarlane. I’m no psychologist, but this doesn’t seem like a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder. I could be wrong, but you don’t hire an actress to play your wife if you’re like the guy from Split. I’m going to see a psychiatrist on Tuesday at the LGBT center after being on a waitlist for a month and a half. I’m going to talk about what’s going on in my life and hopefully get the medication and therapy I desperately need.
I am as truthful about my mental illness as I can possibly be because I want other people to know their problems are not their fault, they deserve all the help they can get, and someone cares about them enough to be honest. I’m helping Seth MacFarlane be himself by sharing my experiences with his characters, none of which I regret. I just want him to be comfortable enough with me to take off the mask.
I’m not perfect. I’m a bipolar, bottle-blonde, yellow-teethed, sugar-bellied, obsessive-compulsive, pot-addicted, trauma-scarred, ADHD chick from Virginia, trying to make it as a writer in LA while turning down daily offers for porn roles. I feel sorry for myself a lot, I get depressed, I get hopeless, I get tunnel vision on what I want, I get manic, I get careless, I get damn near reckless, and I get shit done despite everyone telling me I’m crazy. I can get people on my side. There is endless love for Seth MacFarlane on my side. If I keep showing love for him, others will love him too and let him be himself. I want everyone to be their whole, authentic selves, but if Seth MacFarlane keeps communicating with me through these characters, it means he’s not being himself with me and that makes me sad. Seth could drop the act and pick up the phone at any time. My door is always open to him. I love you!