I started Cassavetes' A Woman Under The Influence last night and I had to turn it off. I only got as far as Gena Rowlands, coming back to her house with a man she had picked up in a bar. Right now, I don't want to know what happens to her. I don't want to know what Cassavetes is about to do.
I knew a woman who lived on the edge, in and out of wards. Overdoses. Slashed wrists. The last time I talked to her was the night she called and said: "I did it again."
I hung up the phone, took a long shower, got dressed, fixed a sandwich and watched a little TV. Then I called 911.