"Isn't that the movie about the lady with the monkeys?" my mother asked.
It was 1993. I was 16. I'd faked sick that day to stay home from school, smoke copious amounts of marijuana and channel surf. Mid-afternoon, I stumbled upon the movie Gorillas in the Mist and for the first time in my young life, a narrative resonated with me: woman demands job, woman gets job, woman does not marry, woman does not live in quiet desperation, woman saves a species, woman is decapitated by unknown assailant, cue triumphant music.
"Gorillas," I corrected her. "It's about gorillas."
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