Oh...... I. Am. So. Angry.
You don't want to see me angry.
I'm serious. You don't.
Ask the two dozen people who've ever actually seen me angry. I turn people to stone. Twice on my set when people f*ked with my hard-working crew. Once in college when I thought my car had been stolen.
I wanta put my fist through a f*king wall right now and bust every knuckle.
WHAT. AM. I. DOING.
I'm Lis F*cking Fies.
You all know that.
Why don't I?
I'm sitting on a contests-winning beloved sexy young action superheroine screenplay that could no joke be sold TOMORROW for a half million dollars. Easy.
Don't believe me? Look again.
I'm afraid to put it out there because I'm afraid they'll offer me too much to take it away from me and I won't be able to say no. I'll sell out. And they'll give it to Brett Ratner to direct. Don't believe me? He bought "I am Vanessa Delgado" and shelved that feminist manifesto. Poof! Gone. Like it never existed.
But I'm sure that female screenwriter has a good career now, script-doctoring.
And what am I doing, besides festering?
I'm letting myself live in squalor. In fear. In scarcity.
Accepting love crumbs from 24-year-old boys. Not EVEN crumbs from Hollywood.
I'm not even in the f*cking game.
Why? Because I could win it.
Because if I asked for it, there's a possiblity the studios might actually let me direct Pistoleras.
I've prepared my whole life for it.
I'm being a pussy.
And I'm treating myself like some loser reject.
I don't have my own back.
Grow a pair, Miss.