It ended up lasting six months. Much of the time, I had the estate to myself. I commuted to West L.A. to tend bar at night, then had days to myself to write a horrible screenplay, almost as depressing and self-indulgent as this letter.
In late 1989, I finally got a job that paid enough so I could get my own place — $5 an hour and 24 cents a mile, but on call 24 hours a day, so it added up.
SINCE THEN, I’VE BEEN only nice and good, not naughty or bad. So kindly direct me, Fuckin’ Santa, toward a future that does not include hideous deaths of loved ones or living on the street or out of my car, and I’ll promise never to write like this again.
I LOOK FORWARD to looking forward to something. Hope to hear from you soon, Fuckin’ Santa.