My Dead Ex-Boyfriend would not want me to write about shit.  He would not want me to write about a dumb crush I have on a guy whose dogs I have spoken to once, and he would not want me to belabor the point in a morbid fashion that I miss him.  He knows I miss him, I tell him this when he comes to me in every single one of my dreams.  He would want me to write about real shit, but some things are hard to write about because I am always culpable, and I am never just a victim, and the Dead-Ex would mitigate this, by telling me I did not bring this on myself.  However, in this instance, the story I am about to tell is all me, I did this, and it was a mistake, and for this, they will likely find my mutilated body washed up in the Playa Inlet: I let back into my life my ex-Boss, the one who sexually harassed me.  He is British, and he is brilliant, and he taught me how to write notes on scripts, but he is also crazy and he thinks he has been in love with me for years, even though when we met he was dating a very powerful Development Girl.  At the time, I was new to Hollywood, two years older than him, but an assistant nonetheless, and I resisted his advances, although the friends of his girlfriend would contend differently.  West Coast Sarah and I would go out with him on occasion, and he would overtly lust after me, but I spent my high school years escaping the advances of men to the point the boys would write “frigid” on my locker, so I was adept at avoiding the cagey Brit, and I let Sarah spy on my tracking website as a thank you for taking care that I was not raped by my new boss.

It has been a few years.  I have moved back and forth across the country twice, and somehow, miraculously, kept in touch with the British, surly man who had professed his love for me when I was a lowly assistant at his company, to the peril of both of our jobs.  I moved on, and so did he and somehow, we stayed friends.  But not the kind of friends you have in real life, just Hollywood friends having lunch every few years and talking about sleeping together but wisely, not.  A few years ago I had just such a lunch with him, and he was getting married.  He still expressed interest in me, and that was the last I heard from him save for one email stating that he had sold a huge screenplay with a big Star attached, the same Big Star for whom I catered a New Year’s Eve party when I was still poor and struggling.  A few months ago, I got a call from the brooding Brit, in the middle of the night, his voice foggy, he misses me, wants to see me…. The next day I emailed him innocently, sure lets have lunch, and he sent back a picture of a lovely little one year old baby.  Apparently, however, his marriage was ending, and he said I am the girl of his dreams.  I have been through this before, men loving the girl I used to be but not the girl I am now.  My history with these guys, any guys other than my Dead Ex, is pathetically small, but I agree to a lunch because I respect the Brit’s standing in our fucked up little community, and the lunch started with nice pasta and ended with him chasing me around a coffee table at his house.  Somehow I managed to escape unscathed but the damage had been done, he loves me now, real love, even though I am a new person, I am no longer fabulous or successful or fast-moving, and his obsession grows anyway. I don’t see him for months afterwards, but I bask in the glow of feeling pretty enough to be stalked, and then finally I agree to go out with him for Valentine’s Day.

Read D Girl Diary immediately.