My Life As Marilyn, Minus the Looks The Body And The Ambition

 I went to see the movie Love Marilyn last night.

I can’t get into that with you because I’m not ready to write a 12 page personal essay on My Life As Marilyn – Minus The Looks, The Body And The Ambition.

Well, I’m willing to get into a little bit of it with you. But only a little bit.

I’m willing to say that every time I watch a movie or read a book about her I hurt inside with empathy but I can’t stop watching and reading out of yearning to better understand myself.

Those are awfully big words to publish publicly like that Jennifer June. Are you comparing yourself to Marilyn Monroe?

No dickhead (that’s what I call the voice of unreason in my head) I’m not.

Well in fact I am.

Not with the famous bombshell sex symbol movie star mind you.

But yes, yes I am with the insecure, over-analytical, self-critical, confused and tortured soul that lived inside that very bombshell sex symbol movie star.

And I’m pretty sure thousands of other woman can relate to that too.

I heard excerpts from Marilyn’s diary last night that could have easily been photocopies from the pages of my own, except for that I tear mine up and throw them in the garbage about once a week for fear of anyone finding them.

Which reminds me, does anybody have a shredder they don’t use? A certain neighbour of ours seems to have a strange habit of alcohol over-consumption followed by staggering around outside my house, followed by resting on my front stairs, coupled with rummaging through our garbage bags. And it’s starting to make me a little paranoid.

Where was I?

Ah yes, boiling water, on account of the boil-water advisory issued by Montréal public safety this morning, and eating vegan ice cream for lunch, for (obviously) the exact same reason.

I was also writing about how Marilyn Monroe and I are pretty much the same person. Only she’s fit, gorgeous, rich, and dead.

But there are these things that she said and wrote. These things about how tortuous it felt to be trapped inside her self.

These insecurities and concerns about not being smart enough or talented enough and not being taken seriously and her doubts about whether she would ever amount to what she aspired to amount to in life.

She wrote in one entry: I am a dancer who doesn’t know how to dance

And it gave me goosebumps and my eyes welled up with tears. I was amazed by how simply she managed to word exactly what I have been feeling for so many years now without having the means to express it.

But there it was.

I was wrong. Now that I’ve started.

I actually do want to get into this with you, whether you want to read about it or not.

But I have a quite conveniently timed therapy appointment in an hour so I’m going to go sponge bath myself with wet-wipes and rainwater collected from the plastic lids of my citronella candles on the patio and head out.

Tune in later tonight for My Life As Marilyn, Minus the Looks The Body And The Ambition Part 2 , Alternately titled: Who gave the dogs tap water to drink because I’m not cleaning that up, you are, yes you are, you’re the one poisoned them, not me.



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