I’ve been living in a 1 bedroom apartment in West Hollywood since May 15th, 2019.
I’m in WeHo, a slowly gentrified, artsy, mostly gay district in LA where the rent is just barely affordable (or so I thought). I can walk to everything I need and the buses go everywhere else. I have a 1 bedroom apartment for myself. It’s got kind of a kitschy 70’s decor with a faux-gold marbled mirror wall in the dining area, cool light fixtures, a nice 2-level gas oven, counter-top gas stove, 2-sink bathroom, shower stall, big, separate bathtub, and air conditioning. Easily cleaned faux-wood linoleum in the living room/dining area, nicer white linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom, a TON of closet/cabinet space, and good water pressure.
There’s a pool right outside my window in a central courtyard that’s like a tornado of white-nose from the multi-cultural neighbors. There’s an elevator with black and white tiled linoleum like in a Tim Burton movie. I have the only two sets of keys to this place, so it feels like mine. I can lock the door and feel safe enough to write and speak my truth. There’s a laundry room in the basement where I can wash/dry for $2.25. I thought I couldn’t handle living alone, but I don’t feel so alone working on #AStarForCarrie every day and growing my Art. My company, Imagination for Sale, LLC is set up at this address. Alexander is my elderly Ukranian neighbor who loaned me $50 when I accidentally locked myself out of the place and he told me “I love you like a daughter” in his best English.
There’s no refrigerator, the stove doesn’t work, the oven doesn’t work, I’m a little grossed out by the bathtub because someone may have died in it, and there’s paint peeling in the shower/sinks. The carpet in the bedroom is stained and dirty, I’m sleeping on a twin mattress on the floor, and the faux-wood linoleum is cracked and peeling in a lot of places. I have a dresser, a writing desk, a folding table, two chairs, a couple of pieces of furniture the former tenants didn’t take when I was robbed back on June 29th, and a roll-top desk I found on the street and dragged up to the place with Alexander’s help.
I cook ramen noodles and pancakes in a rice cooker. I don’t have Wi-Fi. The power is in my name, but I owe a $200 deposit because my credit sucks. I’m a little uncomfortable in the pool area with two security cameras on it. I understand the safety/liability issues, but do you know how easy those things are to hack? I dive in that pool and Putin could be beating off to the video in two seconds. I don’t like that image. There are two washers in the basement, but you can only use one at a time because only one outlet works and the cord was hanging precariously over the machines the last time I did a load of sheets/towels.
Worst of all, I’m not on the lease and the landlord has not contacted me about getting on it or paying the rent. I’ve reached out to him. If I can get Fortunate Son funded, I can get the #AStarForCarrie Nonprofit started, and I can support myself. I don’t have the money to move anywhere else, my only other option would be a homeless shelter. I don’t want that to happen. I want to keep writing, keep selling my ideas because I know they’re going to help a lot of people, including me! I don’t want to keep ending up in situations like this.
How am I paying Rent?
How can I afford such a palace? I can’t and I’ve been afraid to talk about it because I don’t want to lose the roof over my head and the door I can lock so I can focus on writing. I can’t let fear turn me to the Darkside. I have a theory developing that Seth MacFarlane is behind me being in and staying in this apartment because he wants me to keep writing and I haven’t asked him to come rescue me yet. Being Mrs. MacFarlane wouldn’t stop me from writing. I NEED to write every day whether Seth calls or not.
I feel like the robbery was staged as a radical, vigilante trauma therapy experiment. Like the Firestorm episode of The Orville. This whole summer feels like that. The past several years of my life feels like that. Or maybe I was robbed because, in an email, I joked about throwing the tv in the pool, spray painting #AStarForCarrie on the wall, and streaming it all on twitch. I wouldn’t do that, what the hell is twitch anyway? I’m 33. But, they didn’t think that was funny.
I lived through the robbery and I learned a lesson about using pepper spray. DON’T. Stand up to bullies, but use nonviolence whenever possible, and try to be compassionate with everyone. I was handcuffed for using pepper spray on the “former tenants” who robbed me. I started crying and telling the cops about #AStarForCarrie and the harassing emails from the dude who sublet the place to me. They took the cuffs off. I showed them my LLC paperwork and my ID with this address. They said I could stay.
The cops let the “former tenants” take most of the furniture. Not only did they take the refrigerator, but they also took my edibles and my dollar store peanut butter. Why? Just to be dicks? Most of the furniture sat out on the sidewalk for weeks before people took it. I felt was robbed out of spite, but I still stayed. I wasn’t seriously harmed other than the pepper spray, that shit burns everyone around, it’s like a fucking hand grenade full of cayenne. If I’d stayed calm, sat in front of the fridge and called the cops, I wouldn’t have been cuffed and I wouldn’t have had to clean the entire place with vinegar until everything I touched stopped burning.
How long can I stay?
I guess that’s up to Seth MacFarlane or whoever has let me stay this long. I assume they like my writing because that’s all I can do. If I can call a locksmith, anyone can. They don’t check your lease. I could show up at any time and see all my belongings out on the street. That anxiety rumbles in the pit of my stomach every time I lock the deadbolt whenever I leave this apartment. I’ve envisioned going through what’s left of my stuff, packing what I can into whatever, and walking off to join the legion of homeless people in Los Angeles. I don’t want that to happen.
Going to jail for sitting on a sidewalk while tweeting about #OccupyFamilyGuy fucked me up. I was in police custody for three days for that and it was wrong. I’ve never been arrested before. My record was clean. I was fingerprinted, they have my smiling mugshot because I knew I was Not Guilty, and all the jail cell footage of being held against my will. I had to take off that orange jumpsuit in front of a holding cell full of women and a security camera to go to the bathroom. None of what happened to me during those three days was right.
I don’t want to have to go all the way to trial because whoever put me in jail… Will lose. Even with a public defender who’s not 100% on my side, the security camera footage will show me walking up to the door in the parking garage, then walking back out the public sidewalk, what felt like less than a minute later. I’m no lawyer, but that’s not trespassing. I don’t want to be subjected to the trauma and anxiety of going through the arduous court process again, thus wasting MORE taxpayer money and time I could be writing, working on #AStarForCarrie, #OccupyFamilyGuy, and #FortunateSon. I need my life to move forward.
Call me crazy, but I want Seth MacFarlane to rescue me. I want Seth MacFarlane to call me, to meet me, and offer me a better life because he loves me. I want him to drop the trespassing charge and tell me he feels terrible I was in jail for three days. I’m still not totally sure who had me arrested, but even if it was Seth… I think I know why. Read my Dog Story post from before I went to Beverly Hills that day. He may have thought that I was suicidal and that was the only way to protect me from myself.
I wasn’t suicidal and he should have trusted me. I have all those little kids’ big eyes burned into my consciousness from being Princess Leia. I have to survive for them. I get depressed, I get hopeless, I get held back by my own mental problems, but I have never been less suicidal in my life. I shouldn’t have gone to jail, but I can forgive Seth if that was his reason. Please don’t keep drawing this out, we can change the story anytime we want.
I’m tired of struggling, of begging, of suffering for my Art. Seth could change all of that today. I’ve written so much about Seth MacFarlane, there’s no going back now. I need Seth to show people he’s not afraid of me because I feel a lot of people backing away from me like a rabid dog. I’m mentally ill, but I’m not dangerous, I can take care of myself a little, and I deserve to be heard. Seth could help make my life better just by believing in me.
My mom wasn’t even on my side with the trespassing charge at first, but then she read my #OccupyFamilyGuy: Defending Freedom of Speech blog, and now she has faith in me again. My writing can change people for the better. I want Seth to acknowledge that beautiful, astounding power within me, within himself, within all of us. Then #AStarForCarrie will not only be a symbol of recognition for a brilliant, underrated writer who happened to be Princess Leia, but it will also show Hollywood that men can fuck up and make it right. I believe Seth can make that happen.
If not, that means I have to keep working alone, keep writing, keep telling the truth, keep fighting this bullshit charge, and keep hoping he’ll come around. Even after all this, I would marry that guy tomorrow if he asked. You don’t put this kind of insanely elaborate effort into someone you don’t truly love. I gotta say, I’m impressed, permanently, deeply, truly in love with Seth MacFarlane.
Being honest, being compassionate, being forgiving… that’s all Force stuff. It shows a lack of fear. What are you afraid of, Seth? I don’t want any more characters, I want the real Seth. I want to go on a road trip with Seth, I want him to meet my mom, I want all of those romantic comedy tropes I’ve always pretended to be too cool or too busy for in the past. I want to marry Seth MacFarlane, have children with him, and make beautiful art with him. I’m telling the truth. I love you!