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Q: Would you like to start by introducing yourself?
My name is Bonnie.
Q: And you’re a writer?
I suppose so.
Q: Do you enjoy writing?
Nobody enjoys writing.
Q: Do you have any other hobbies?
I like calculus. I like long baths. I like playing with candles.
Q: Is that all?
Sometimes I watch TV.
Q: Don’t you ever spend time with your friends?
If I did, I think I would get bored of them.
Q: What about dating?
What about it?
Q: Are you seeing anyone?
I don’t like to talk about my private life.
Q: Don’t people tell you that you’re pretty?
Yes. It means little to me.
Q: Don’t people try to kiss you?
Yes. Sometimes I kiss them back. It means little to me.
Q: Are you interested in men?
No.
Q: So, you’re a lesbian?
Something like that.
Q: Do your parents accept you?
I knew you would ask that. Yes.
Q: Have you ever been raped?
That was abrupt.
Q: Have you ever been raped by a man?
That is irrelevant.
Q: Are you a lesbian because you were raped by a man?
If I said no, would you believe me?
Q: That’s not an answer.
That’s not a question.
Q: How do you avoid getting raped?
Cut your hair short. Wear jeans instead of miniskirts. Go to the bathroom in pairs. Don’t take your eyes off your drink. If a man tells you he’s into bondage, run away. If a man tells you his favorite book is Lolita, run away. If a man speaks to you at all, run away. Don’t leave your house after ten P.M. or before eight A.M. Don’t leave your house when it’s raining. Don’t leave your house during rush hour. No, don’t leave your house at all. Live alone, on the seventeenth story of a twenty story building. Keep both your locks secure. Consider investing in a third. Have your groceries delivered, prepaid with credit card, ask them to leave the bags in the hallway and don’t retrieve them until twenty minutes after they’ve left. Fry your brain on the internet, use Netflix if you like but never cable, especially not the local news. Throw away your books. Stop taking your meds. Stop watering your plants, watch them die slowly. Don’t talk to your friends, don’t look at the clock, and don’t ever close your eyes. As your body falls apart, tell yourself: at least you’re safe. At least you’re safe. At least you’re safe.
Q: Do you think that these experiences have shaped your identity as a writer?
What a stupid question.
Q: I’m sorry.
I forgive you.
Q: Do you see yourself as talented?
No. I don't think I ever will.
Q: Why not?
There will always be people better than me.
Q: Will you write me something?
I barely know you.
Q: Will you write me something?
You’re not even real.
Q: Will you write me something?
I already have.
Q: Who are you? Why do you write? Why do you exist? Why do you get to be real and I don’t? Why are you so selfish? Why aren’t you grateful? Why are you here when you could be anywhere else? Are you an angel? Are you a God? Are you schizophrenic? Do you believe that you can erase the horrors of reality by writing a new ending? Do you believe that you can save the world? Do you believe that you can save yourself? How can you save yourself when you can’t even water those fucking plants on the windowsill? Do you value your own life? Do you value the lives of others? Are you suicidal? Homicidal? Genocidal? Is it because of your parents? Is it because of your ex? Is it because you’re depressed, bipolar, retarded? Is it because you’re insane? Have you ever been in love? Have you ever been in love? Have you ever been in love?
…
Q: Why don’t you love me?
I don't know.
Q: Why don’t you love me?
I couldn't if I tried.
Q: Why don’t you love me?
It's hard to love.