me & Zooey

Posted in Uncategorized by anna on February 17, 2009

I’ve never liked the actress Zooey Deschanel. At first I thought it was because she has a second career as a singer or she was named for a J.D. Salinger character or because she always plays the twee, passive cute girl she is, whether she’s being deadpan in a blockbuster comedy or an easy-to-swallow indie.

But more recently I’ve realized I don’t like Zooey Deschanel because she’s the voice in my head that tells me I’m an idiot. 

I’m not schizophrenic, so like, I’m aware of the fact that I write my own inner monologue. But, for whatever reason, Zooey Deschanel does the voiceover.

You really think anyone’s going to buy you a drink? she’ll ask when I’m at a bar with friends. You didn’t even straighten your hair.

Maybe I’ll win them over with my charm, I reply.

Maybe you’re retarded, says Zooey.


And then some guy comes up to me. If I’m attracted to him at all, I inevitably morph into a massive bitch, which is my way of pre-emptively giving up.

You are such a self-sabotager, says Zooey as he walks away.


That means you sabotage yourself, she adds sagely.

Thanks for the clarification.

My character in Winter Passing was a self-sabotager. Her name was Reese Holden. A pause. That’s a Salinger reference as well, by the way.

That’s funny, my nickname’s Catcher in the Fuck You.

She doesn’t laugh, because she never laughs, especially not at herself. She just says, You’re fucked up.

So are you.

Yeah, but you’re not loveable. That’s the difference. I’m quirky and lovable.

And modest, you dick.

I’m serious. You just have to learn how to make your fucked-upness marketable. That’s what I did, and look at me now.

Yeah, check you out. You’re a voice in my head.

There’s an uncomfortable pause, and when she speaks again, she sounds unsure. Mostly deadpan, like always, but like one percent unsure.

Listen bitch, do you have any idea how much bank I made off Elf?

How much?


You can’t tell me because you don’t know.

I do too.

No, you don’t. Wanna know why? Because I don’t know, and you’re a voice in my head.

Fuck you, okay? she mumbles.

Don’t shit on me just because I lack the ability to be dispassionate, I tell her.

Yeah, you really can’t… How come, you think?

I don’t know, I just care about everything too much.

That intensity puts people off, she says.

Maybe, but I’m not gonna change for some assholes.

What about for your own sanity? I mean, it’s exhausting to care so much.

I’m glad I care.

It’s just you’re so fucking cunty sometimes.

At least I’m not an “actress-slash-singer.”

I wanted to sing before I wanted to act. So don’t even front.



Fine, great.

Great. Fuck you.


Valentine’s Day

Posted in stories by anna on February 16, 2009

Dear Future Husband,

My name is Allie Fitzgerald and I am twelve years old and if you’re reading this that means we are married! And if we’re married that means you probably have to pretend to like my mom, if my mom isn’t dead yet. Sorry about that.

I hope we didn’t meet in college. My sister met her husband in college and now he’s in Minneapolis and she’s on eHarmony. I hope we met at a museum or at a bar because that’s how it is in movies.

Are you rich? I don’t really care either way, because money can’t buy happiness. But it doesn’t hurt, my mom always whispers in my ear when people say that. Like I said, I don’t care about that.

Did we get married on top of a skyscraper like I wanted?

And I probably don’t have a say, but can you be tall and have green or blue eyes? Because I have brown eyes and if you have brown eyes then our kids will definitely have brown eyes and that’s boring.

Can you be funny, and not loud stupid funny or mean funny but just funny funny? And nice to waiters? And let me name our kids (Connor and Ellie)?

Please don’t make me look like the mean mommy when I make Connor re-do his math homework when he gets half the long-division questions wrong.

Don’t go away on business trips to the branch office in Kansas City, because I’ll be lonely. And if you have to go away, can you send me on a scavenger hunt in our house or mail me coded messages on Post-Its in order to keep me busy so that I don’t worry about other women in other bars and other museums?

Please don’t tell me when you get back from Kansas City that you’ve met someone in Kansas City.

Especially if she’s a 22-year-old poetry MFA candidate named Jennica—which isn’t a name, by the way.

Can you not already have hired a mediator to figure out whose is what in the settlement, including Connor and Ellie who like you better because I made Connor learn long-division?

And when we have that last fight, can we make sure that Connor and Ellie are at school or with the nanny instead of huddled upstairs in their room sharing an iPod and waiting for the shouting to end?

Can I keep the house? Because you’ve already put a down payment on a smaller one and bought a flat-screen that you say is for the kids when it’s really for you.

Actually, please have brown eyes. And you can be a little funny, enough to make me laugh for the first couple years, but don’t be the kind of funny I’d stay in love with. Please be short, and a bad tipper.

Can you make sure to take all of your ties off the back of the closet door, so that I don’t have to remember you every time I look in the closet?

And when you leave for the last time please be quiet when you shut the door behind you, so I don’t have to turn away from the news and see you go, even though I know you are.


Allie Fitzgerald

My Boyfriend The Puritan

Posted in stories by anna on February 4, 2009

It’s kind of hard to tell that my boyfriend is the hottest guy at Plainsboro North High, but swear to God he’s hotter than the entire varsity soccer team put together.

When he first moved here everyone thought he was weird because he had long hair and breeches and smelled kind of bad. Then he ran screaming out of computer class on the first day and only wrote his term papers on parchment until he got called into the front office and lectured by Principal Freedman on protocol.

But I saw through his façade. I always go for that type, you now? The guys who put up a big front to hide their real selves. “You shouldn’t be such a fixer-upper, Ashley,” everyone’s always told me, and it’s totally true. I always go for “the tortured musician.” “The misunderstood delinquent.”

And now I’m going out with If-Christ-Had-Not-Died-For-Thee-Thou-Hadst-Been-Damned Osborne, the cutest time-traveling Puritan who’s ever transferred to Plainsboro North High.

Don’t think it was easy. I made him go by “Danny,” which totally sounds better than the name his tweaked-out parents gave him, and I drove him to Hollister and Supercuts and pulled over on the highway to show him the engine of the car ‘cause he was all freaked it was a demon or something. 

Then I invited him for dinner the night my mom made Cheez Wiz Beefaroni and showed him how to work a DVD player and shoot hoops with my little brother and use AIM.

And now he’s on the JV basketball team and doesn’t even text-message in Olde English anymore, except the occasional “Principal Freedman is the eevelest of alle the Devil’s specters” and stuff like that. Which is okay now, because he’s cool, and it’s an endearing quirk. Besides, he usually uses t9 like the rest of us.

He didn’t really “know” much, if you get what I’m saying. About like, hooking up or whatever. But nobody’s perfect, right? He’s a quick learner. And he can totally talk dirty.

“Ashley,” he says as I’m giving him head in the driver’s seat of my parents’ Taurus, “I feel as if my earthly body is made up of all manners of sin.”

He’s a little weird, but I kind of love him a lot, you know? We’re applying to state school together.



inspired by this.