Today I write my story because my story is the only asset I have left.

Like Little Annie Fannie with angel wings, I was a teenager when I began my pursuit of the priest, which took me to the Timothy Leary ranch near Laguna, to a Yoga ashram in Dallas, to starring in porn films thinking it would not hurt an acting career, to fundamentalist Christianity where in late middle age I danced in orgasmic glee to Gospel songs, to this day when my religion is to float in a kind of cosmic combination of all of it.    

When I was thirteen, my dad told my sister and I we didn't have to go to Catholic Church anymore.  My sister is the only other victim of Father Horne that I know of and she’s not a reliable witness, which is why my lawsuit against the Chicago Archdiocese never went anywhere, I was never able to corroborate what happened with Father Horny.

Right around age thirteen, I trashed out the girls room at a San Gabriel Valley church one Sunday, which might have been why we didn't have to go to mass anymore.  Me trashing the girls room combined with my sister’s unusual sexuality in high school may have made it register in my dad’s head: 

What Father Horne did to his two daughters had long lasting effects. 

Since I’d left mass one Sunday afternoon and left the girls room a wreck, scrawling “hypocrites” all over the walls, tearing the towel dispenser out of the wall, maybe I wasn’t even welcome at the local Catholic Church anymore. 

I write my story today because it is my only asset.