She spent long evenings mooning around dreaming she was Marilyn Munro. Then entire weekends grafting on her play, being Arthur Miller. Being Marilyn was a breeze. Everyone loved her and the gnawing on her insides was easily masked by a fifth of whiskey and a deeper shade of lipstick. Arthur was a bit more tricky. That damn second act was a bitch and the G-men were constantly banging down the door. And it seemed so much harder to persuade people you are not what they think you are, than to cover up yourself what you yourself really know to be true.