Shockaholic

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What was it I wanted to tell you? Was it the new T-shirt-ready saying I came up with: “There’s no room for demons when you’re self-possessed”? No, that wasn’t it, although I did want to get that in somewhere and now I have… Oh, yeah. I wanted to tell all you naysayers who bought this book begrudgingly—or received it as a gift from someone who doesn’t know you that well—that by the last page you will say to yourself (as I did), “That Carrie Fisher! I picked up Shockaholic expecting to read way more than I wanted to about some eager-to-please fucktard blathering on about her drug addiction and her mental illness and her poor sad life. I mean, come on, this woman made millions of dollars on Star Wars. What is she complaining about? She’s so self-involved that they need to come up with a new word for what she is. I mean, does she have any other topic but herself? No wonder she’s mentally ill. She’s got herself on her mind ten, fifteen, twenty hours a day! It never ends. ‘Oh, here’s something about me, and here’s another thing about me, and, wait, here’s something about me I don’t think I told you. Oh, I did? Well, here it is again in case you managed to forget it.’ And the thing is, Who’s asking? Does anyone hear any questions? I think someone actually has to pull her aside—if you can get her to shut up for five seconds—and say, ‘No one has asked you a single question, not in twelve thousand years. Can’t you just give us all a break? We all have lives, too, but how can we live them with her continuously blowing the lunch of her life into our existence. No one has asked!’

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