Prozac Nation Page #2

I've been wanting so badly

for sex to happen the right way...

...with the right person,

at the right time, in the right place.

- It wasn't any big deal.

- When is it, though?

- It should've been.

- Well, at least he's good-looking.

It was my first time.

Yeah, sure.

No, I'm serious.

Are you kidding me?

It's true.

No way, I don't believe you.

I figured I should start having sex

like a normal 19-year-old.

I happen to think

this calls for celebration.

- We could have a party.

- A party?

It was meant to be subtle...

...but of course...

Elizabeth, this is great.

Such a wild idea.

Everyone got it.

Only not everyone was so pleased.

I wish I'd have thought

of something like this.

Thanks.

I love your dress.

Hey.

How can you take something private

and turn it into something public?

It wasn't private to begin with.

- It was good. It was interesting.

- Interesting?

I just mean it wasn't about me.

You know, it wasn't special.

It was just sex.

Okay, that's cool.

You don't look cool with it.

I'd been saving my virginity

for someone who truly loves me...

...who really knows the inside of me.

Noah wasn't it.

He told me afterwards that,

in terms of absolute value...

...sex and drugs were

equally meaningless to him.

Just two different ways to have fun.

Which is all well and good...

...until a girl tries to have

the same approach.

Lizzie?

- Hey, have you guys seen Lizzie?

- No.

Lizzie?

Lizzie?

Lizzie, you got a phone call.

- Who is it?

- Rolling Stone.

Rolling Stone?

The college journalism

award for 1985...

...goes to Elizabeth Wurtzel...

...for her Harvard Crimson piece

on Lou Reed.

I want to forget everything

that has happened to me before.

I wanna freeze this moment.

Forever.

Thank you.

- It's great.

- No, you're great.

- Thank you.

- You're welcome.

I'm thinking about the bands coming

to Cambridge who you can cover.

It's rare we get somebody

who's going to all the gigs...

...writing with such clarity.

So I'm thinking

he's coming on to me...

...and he's, like, an editor

at Rolling Stone.

And how old is he?

- Oh, my God.

- What?

- It's my dad.

- Oh, cool.

Look at that.

- What?

- I can't believe he left us for that.

What? What's the matter?

I haven't seen him in four years.

Wait. I thought you said...

I know what I said.

Dad, when are you coming back

to live with us?

Well, I'm not, honey. You know that.

But Mom said that if you want to,

she wants you to.

I'm sure your mom

didn't say that, did she?

She did.

Honey, you know...

...it's just not gonna happen.

Which doesn't mean

that I love you any the less.

Who does he think he is?

He disappears for four f***ing years.

Then he thinks he can come here...

...and take pictures of his perfect

Ivy League daughter?

This place has nothing to do with him.

The least he can do is have

the decency to understand that.

You should say something to him.

Like what?

I don't know.

How's your new life?

How's your new f***ing girlfriend?

Lizzie, he's your father.

He loves you.

No, you don't know what it was like.

When I was 8, we went

to see The Last Waltz.

He passed out on tranquilizers.

I had to sit through the movie three

f***ing times before he woke up.

What kind of a person does that?

I didn't realize.

That article...

...it was just wish fulfillment.

I was writing about how

I wanted things to be.

The way people talked about it...

...the way you talked about it,

it made it seem real.

Well, maybe it can be.

No. It's just a dream I held

on to for way too long.

I'm happy here.

I don't need him anymore.

We should go. Are you coming?

No. I promised my editor

that article by next week.

Jesus, it's 4:
00 in the morning.

Do you mind?

I know. I'm sorry.

Music helps me concentrate.

Springsteen' like

this garage-mechanic poet.

You can feel the sweat in his voice,

the grime in his guitar.

When he sings, I see steamy streets...

...lovers groping hands...

...busted fenders.

The dirt is under his nails

and the clairvoyance in his eyes.

Jesus, Lizzie,

you haven't slept in days.

I had it perfect before.

I know I can get it back.

His words twist and grind and

hammer out a story for the brain...

...but his guitar and voice go

straight for your heart.

Music bellows from his insides, and

out comes the struggles of the world.

Springsteen'

like this garage-mechanic poet.

Music bellows from his insides.

Out comes the struggles of the world,

of knowledge that comes with perfec...

It' like he feels with knowledge

that goes back through ages...

...to a single chord in our brains.

That beacon that can be touched...

He has the power of pure emotion.

Emotions so intense the body

literally must do something...

- Out comes the struggles...

- F***.

She still hasn't slept.

Lizzie.

Lizzie!

I don't know how to say this

to you, all right...

...but you are starting to smell.

This is important.

Lizzie, it's not as important as

your health. You gotta get some sleep.

Will you just f*** off?

I just have to finish this.

I can get you some downers, okay?

- Yeah?

- Yeah.

Noah? Noah, come on,

give it to me. Noah!

Lizzie, this is just scribbling.

What? What the f***? A**hole!

Stop it. Noah, put her down.

Put her...

Jesus, she turned

into the Harvard bag lady.

- What are you doing?

- She needs something.

- What?

- I don't know, some medical help.

Ruby!

It's okay. I got them, I got them.

It's all right.

Emotions so intense...

Bodies fly into air...

Lizzie. Lizzie, look.

You gotta calm down, okay?

That's not what you said when

I had your dick in my mouth.

You had any drugs

in the last 24 hours?

No.

Well, I guess I snorted some coke

and smoked some pot...

...but that was just to make

the Ecstasy last longer.

Sure you're not forgetting anything?

Maybe a few beers.

Did you ever think you might have

a substance-abuse problem?

The only substance problem I have

is I need you to give me some tranqs...

...so I can come down

off this f***ing coke.

And then what happens?

So you don't like coming here,

and you don't want to talk.

You don't have to.

You don't have to say anything...

...you don't want to say,

but if you don't say anything...

...if you don't talk to me...

...I can't help you.

You know, if you're

gonna suggest therapy, don't.

I'm living proof it doesn't work.

- So, what are you doing here?

- My friends brought me here.

Had nothing to do with you?

Are you gonna give

me something, doctor?

No.

Not today.

I'm falling.

I can't even finish my article.

Maybe Noah' right.

It' all a scribble.

I don't really have

anything original to say.

Writing can't save me.

Even Harvard can't save me.

How can I escape from

the demons in my head?

- I didn't.

- So, what, did she blow you?

- Did you go...? What?

- Yeah, she f***ing blew me, all right?

- But I was drunk.

- You f***ing shithead.

How f***ing could you?

How f***ing...?

Lizzie?

Lizzie, stop.

Lizzie!

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