Oh. Hi. *takes six long gulps of water during which you’re like, * My name is Betty. I have depression. I have passion. I have tits the size of printers. And also: I have a brain full of women. There’s Blanche VonFuckery, Ingrid St. Rash, and a host of others—some cowering in sweatpants, some howling plans for revolution, and one, oh God, and one . . . slowly vomiting up a crow? Worried for her. These women take turns at the wheel. That’s why I feel like a million selves. With a raised eyebrow and a soul-scalpel, I’d like to tell you how I got this way. Because maybe you feel this way too. Let’s hop from wild dissections of modern womanhood to boarding school musings to the glossy cringe of Hollywood. Let’s laugh at my failures and then quietly hope with me for the dream. Whether that dream is love or liberation or enough IMDB credits to taze the demon snapping at my ankles, we won’t know until the shit-fanning end. As a dear friend said after reading this book, it’s “either a masterpiece, or it’s…completely…” and then she glazed over into a haunted stare. Reader? This book is my opus and it is chaos. Welcome to