Ellroy, James - Crim..

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For me--
I feel self-conscious about this, like I'm going to have to get approval on it eventually. (Approval it is--or
you're doomed to insignificance). Everything I've done, supposedly being myself and with the promise of
anonymity, I do for approval . . . knowing. . . "this'll get 'em." "They'll love me for this" and "They'll say
nice things behind my back."
I guess I've been searching for an identity too desperately. . . seized the nearest image; whether David
and doing things his way and pointedly not compromising with my traditional way--and using it vs. my
parents--snubbing my nose at their way. Always hate to be with them after a lengthy visit with "current"
boyfriend and their families-- guilt--I guess. Trying to show them I can be something. Always faking it.
Never tapping my own resources. Afraid of--what? Me or that there won't be anything.
I'm no good. I'm not really that pretty. My figure's fat and will never be the way my mother wants it. I
won't let it be what wants. How stupid. I want to be slim and she loves me and wants me to be
slim--intellectualization doesn't mark.
Why must I be so alone. Have I fallen that short of my ideal? Why does my image of me have to be so
aesthetic and perfect? What's the use of living with nothing to believe in? Have faith in? Where's the
security--or habit or order--oh shit--what good is that going to do? What happens to me-- or my Andy?
Why doesn't he want me? Why? There's no GOD.
There's nothing only phony motives, selfish egoists, selfless people, fat heads and drunks, and I want
I like President Kennedy, Bertrand Russell, Theodore Reiks, Peter O'Toole, SydneyJ. Harris, Albert
Finney.
I just care about now who gives a shit about 10 years from now. (there won't be any with Andy--maybe
that's it.) If only I had a reason. No one needs me--or cares to need me. They're right. I'm bored and I'm
a doll at first, then a phony and fake. I feel like "they" owe me a life. Like all my failings are their fault. . . .
I dare them to make me happy. How immature and childish--I know.
Chapman and Wahlke let the Goddards go home.
The press arrived. They caught the dead-body call off a policeband broadcast. Chapman and Wahlke
made them stand in the courtyard. They revealed the victim's name and ID'd her father. The reporters
dispersed and phoned in their stories.
The coroner's investigator arrived. He removed the victim's body and took it to the L.A. County
Morgue. Dr. Harold Kade performed the autopsy.
Rubberneckers jammed up the courtyard. The victim's phone rang. Chapman grabbed it.
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