Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher Read Free Book Online Page A

stupid fucking boy things.
    But back to the first film. Shortly after I arrived, George gave me this unbelievably idiotic hairstyle, and I’m brought before him like some sacrificial asshole and he says in his little voice, “Well, what do you think of it?” And I say—because I’m terrified I’m going to be fired for being too fat—I say, “I love it.” Yeah, and the check’s in the mail and one size fits all and I’ll only put it in a little bit!
    Because, see, there was this horrible fat thing going on! When I got this great job to end all jobs, which truly I never thought I would get because there were all these other beautiful girls who were up for the part—there was Amy Irving and Jodie Foster; this girl Teri Nunn almost got the part
    Oh! and Christopher Walken almost got cast as Han Solo. (Wouldn’t that have been fantastic?) Anyway, when I got this job they told me I had to lose ten pounds. Well, I weighed about 105 at the time, but to be fair, I carried about fifty of those pounds in my face! So you know what a good idea would be? Give me a hairstyle that further widens my already wide face!
     
    So you see, George Lucas is a sadist. But like any abused child, wearing a metal bikini, chained to a giant slug about to die, I keep coming back for more. Now why, you might ask? Well, (I would answer), let’s face it, George Lucas is a visionary, right? The man has transported audiences the world over and has provided Mark and Harrison and myself with enough fan mail and even a small merry band of stalkers, keeping us entertained for the rest of our unnatural lives—not to mention identities that will follow us to our respective graves like a vague, exotic smell.
     
    Speaking of graves, I tell my younger friends that one day they’ll be at a bar playing pool and they’ll look up at the television set and there will be a picture of Princess Leia with two dates underneath, and they’ll say “awww—she said that would happen.” And then they’ll go back to playing pool.
    And don’t forget, George Lucas was the man who made me into a little doll! And it barely even hurt. A little doll that one of my exes could stick pins into whenever he was annoyed with me. (I found it in the drawer.) He also made me into a shampoo bottle where people could twist off my head and pour liquid out of my neck. Paging Dr. Freud!
    And then there was a soap that read, “Lather up with Leia and you’ll feel like a Princess yourself.” (Boys!) Oh! And the nice people at Burger King made me into a watch. And you know Mr. Potato Head? Well, they just came out with a Mr. Potato Head Star Wars series so you might recognize me as Princess Tater? (With my husband Dick and our daughter, Rehabili-tater.) And I’m a tiny little stumpy Lego thing—which are delicious, by the way. And now there’s even a stamp, which is totally cool—and not only because of the licking. But the thing I’ve been made into that has really enhanced the quality of my life? I’m a PEZ dispenser. True story. Which not only has really made my life great, but it’s enhanced the lives of everyone I run into. If you can get someone to make you into a PEZ dispenser, do it. And my daughter loves it because like I told you, she’s a teenager, and they love to humiliate the parent for sport, so all she has to do is flip my head back and pull a wafer out of my neck. But ultimately, I really don’t mind. Even though, among George’s many possessions, he owns my likeness, so that every time I look in the mirror I have to send him a couple of bucks! That’s partly why he’s so rich! Because I’m vain. So, I look in the mirror a lot, and it adds up.
    You know I saw yet another Leia figurine recently at one of those comic book conventions—which yes, I go to when I’m lonely. Anyway, this doll was on a turnstile. And when it got to a particular place on the turnstile, you could see up my dress, to my anatomically correct—though shaved—galaxy snatch. Well, as you can imagine, because this