I was going to write about the movie I saw (Strangers on a Train) at the Hollwood Forever screening tonight. About all the hot dudes and chicks looking for love out on the lawn at dusk. And about how I saw this shooting star over the screen, and I wished for something amazing. I was going to write about how it burned my ass that that dickhead was probably snuggling up to his cunt of an ex tonight...but I suddenly didn't feel like saying any of that, once I got up on the roof. Here's what I felt like saying.

I’m tripping out right now. I am tripping out on the stars and the way the night sky and clouds hang down around the palm trees.

I was thinking tonight about the way we shape our own destiny. And wondering, if I could have talked to the Me at fourteen, whether she would have believed everything I said was going to happen. The bullshit. The knives. Where I am now, in the heart of this city, on my own, and the fact that I did it all myself…what would she have said?

No fucking way.

Rated R, just like that.

I hesitate to give myself props. I hesitate to say, “Good Job,” because it can always be a better job, right? But the way things have turned out, every twist a new adventure that I took hold of and flew with…I have to give myself props. Everyone who came here from another place, everyone who left something behind, everyone who sacrificed the safety of a nest for their ability to be free…props should be given to them. Gold fucking stars. If you didn’t want to give them to yourself, I’m here giving them to you now. And let me clarify…It doesn’t have to be Hollywood to be Hollywood. I don’t care how fucking corny it sounds, I mean that "Hollywood" is just whatever you strive for.

Although almost everyone here will give you that blasé Whatever…I’m not embarrassed or too cool to say that this is one of the most amazing places in the world. Dreams come into being and die here. People leave entire lives, existences, for a chance to be here. And here I am, on the rooftop, looking at that sign that says Hollywood, living and working in the place where legends lived and worked…where they made themselves legends.

And that’s something I never considered, driving up to the Palace for KROQ Friday nights when I was underage and got in because I was charming and sixteen.

I smell the chlorine from the swimming pool downstairs and it reminds me of Pirates of the Carribean. I used to ride and wish I could stay onboard, to go behind the scenes, to see what made this fantasy tick.

Now I’m here and I can hear it ticktickticking. It makes a noise like traffic and helicopters, and the fluorescent bug light by the elevator on the rooftop landing. Who could have told me, it sounds like this? It smells like this? It feels like being alone and 26, feeling your life unfolding in front of you like fresh laundry, unlimited, unsoiled, ready for you to fucking wear it?

I’m so ready. I’m so here. I’m so making every moment happen, on my own. No one gave me this. No one made it happen. I didn’t need love or romance, or even beauty to get me here.

My wits have brought me to where I am now. And I couldn’t be prouder. I think of every trial I have surmounted…and it seems as if each one were a challenge strategically planted on the road, a test of my strength and resilience. And you know what? I passed every single one.

When I think of things in those terms, I don’t care which ex-boyfriend is with some Hometown Comfort Girl. I only think about the beautiful struggles of this place, how I look down at the street and know each little speck bustling around down there at midnight has a story, has a reason, has a fantasy. I want to know each and every one of them. I want to hear how they all came to be here. What are they waiting for? What do they wish for, on a falling star?

What does this make me, this desire to know them?

I feed on the dreams of others. I feed on our collective dream. I feed on the legacy of romance that has been handed to me by nearly a century of film, and centuries of literature in every language--tragic rhymes telling of our origins and destinations.

(Love. Greatness. What we strive for and keeps us grasping in the dark, hoping to find something we can cling to.)

Every other love affair, I say I’m going to give up on these ideals, on these stupid notions that drive me to seek out the one that will make me feel I am Hepburn to his Grant, Crosby, whoever. Every other love affair, I give up. And then I watch some movies, I read some stories, and I’m so fucking fired up. Fired up for something fantastic.