Postcards From the Edge by Carrie Fisher Read Free Book Online

as I can about how to curb that appetite. I’m glad to be here-well, I’m not glad to be here, but I’m here, and I’m gonna take advantage of the situation:”
    That sounded so cool. She was looking right at me. I think she likes me. I think she sees that I’m open, that I’m a man and yet I’m sensitive and aware of my own feelings. She has to respect the process I’m going through. I seemed a little scattered at first, maybe, but overall I was succinct and I seemed to have a grasp of … Let’s face it, there’s something romantic about a fucked-up guy. Not that I’m fucked up, but I’m in a fucked-up place.
    I think it would be great publicity for this clinic if it got out that Suzanne Vale met this great television writer here. It would be good for her reputation to be known as somebody who’s going out with a writer. It would give her more credibility.
    She’s so funny, and she has great eyes. Who is this asshole therapist Stan busting her for using her humor as a weapon? An “affably hostile weapon:” We’re here for drugs, not to have our personalities dismantled. They better not try it with me, or I’m gonna punch that guy out. They’re just jealous because they have to be in this clinic all the time, and she’ll probably leave and make a TV movie about it. Maybe I’ll write it. Oooh, this whole thing could really pay off.,
    I wonder if they let you fuck in the clinic …
    DAY EIGHTEEN
    Sid graduated today. There was a little ceremony to see him off and launch him back into the now, like a little detoxed boat. It was actually sort of moving, with all the junkies sitting in a circle of chairs in the television room. A coin was passed
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    around, and everybody held the coin and said something encouraging and wise (or at least tried to) for Sid to carry with him. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I sang “I’ve Gotta Be Me.” Carol cried.
    I rarely cry. I save my feelings up inside me like I have something more specific in mind for them. I’m waiting for the exact perfect situation and then Boom! I’ll explode in a light show of feeling and emotiona pinata stuffed with tender nuances and pent-up passions. Until then, though, no sobbing for Sid.
    I’ll miss him holding my feet, though. I don’t miss whole people usually. I mainly miss the things they do:
    The way they wear their hats, The way they squeeze my feet, The memory of all that,
    No, no…
    I wonder if I’ll ever be able to cry, and what it could possibly be that would set me off. The image of Heathcliff looking over the moors, holding Cathy’s newly dead body? The memory of my father forgetting my twelfth birthday? The sweetness of Sid holding my feet, recalled one day in traffic?
    The new guy Alex may be goodlooking, but he also seems like kind of an asshole.
    … “I’m an alcoholic:” “I’m an alcoholic” Why does everybody have to humiliate themselves by talking about it? I’m also a Leo, why don’t they talk about that? They should have us stress the good parts about ourselves instead of dragging up all this bile. Why not a positive, uplifting approach?
    I’m gonna go over and talk to Suzanne. Maybe we could even have dinner together. I want to talk to her …
    So who are all these people? That Wanda, she’s pretty, but that guy Sam told me she tried to kill herself. I don’t like suicides. I think it shows a real weakness, to asphyxiate yourself and then overdose
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    POSTCARDS from the EDGE
    in a hospital. How do they know all this stuff about each other? Is your chart just available for scrutiny at any hour of the night? We might as well put out newsletters. God, there’s no privacy here …
    There’s one thing I didn’t try that I bet works: hypnosis. I think that might be the key. And I could join a gym. I mean, I could go to the gym I already belong to. But I don’t like to go ‘cause it’s all gay people. But maybe I’ll get a friend and start going to the gym. And do