Why me? — Jodie Foster on the assassination attempt on Reagan

I understand what love is, but what about them? I am troubled by those who are mentally disturbed—if you can accept such a statement. However, it seems that any unrestrained outpouring of emotion is madness. Is this a legitimate defense? If so, we are all innocent

The police quickly apprehended the person who threatened me. What was unexpected was that he was carrying a handgun filled with lead and had also planned to assassinate the president

He assassinated the president, and the news has been broadcasted

We continued walking, and during dinner, almost everyone asked me if I knew the situation regarding the president. However, my radio had broken down three months ago, and until the evening, no one had informed me who was planning to assassinate the president

I hope to become a sociable girl, friendly to others and widely popular. The key point is that I wish for my efforts to be recognized.

Below is the main text of "Why Me?"

However, during the intermission, a message appeared on the corridor's bulletin board—"The end of the performance is the time of Jodie Foster's death"—and the police immediately rushed in to check those present. I felt that was inappropriate. Later, it was discovered that this was merely a malicious joke. An audience member, having been stopped and searched at the entrance by two athletes, harbored resentment and executed a small act of revenge. Several hours passed, and I was still alive, living quite well. An audience member, having been stopped and searched at the entrance by two athletes, harbored resentment and executed a small act of revenge. Several hours passed, and I was still alive, living quite well

I have never stayed in any place for more than three months, nor have I established solid friendships with peers. I only have one childhood companion—Clara Lisa. She is also a person of uncertain whereabouts; perhaps she is in Paris, or Tahiti, or God knows where else.

Our English proficiency is limited, and we managed to produce these through a combination of guessing and using a translator. Some sections were truly untranslatable, so we had to omit them

Returning to those days of daily makeup, when I was referred to as Miss Foster, feels both strange and unnatural to me. I do not wish to return to the calls from family, agents, and producers, as these only indicate that I still rely on them and still seek their validation. Perhaps my actions are merely a form of self-deception.

My friend pulled me into the dormitory, glanced at me, closed the door, and asked me what was wrong. I began to cry, and then, with tears in my eyes, I started to laugh. I couldn't stop. It was simply too ridiculous, too strange, too painful. She must have thought I was going crazy

One day I will revisit and deeply contemplate this peculiar history of books, realizing that my performing career has somehow intertwined with politics. In this media-controlled world, anything can happen. Just when everyone thinks the matter is settled, my wounds still ache subtly. I find myself still ensnared, unable to escape. Perhaps a stranger will still approach me on the street and ask, "Aren't you the woman who assassinated the president?" Just when everyone thinks the matter is settled, my wounds still ache subtly. I find myself still ensnared, unable to escape. Perhaps a stranger will still approach me on the street and ask, "Aren't you the woman who assassinated the president?"

Perhaps only I know that there are actually two Jodie Fosters. One always appears on screen, with blonde hair and a confident smile. This is the Jodie Foster that everyone sees. The other is known only to me. She is strong on the outside but weak on the inside, using her superficial intelligence to mask her true self. In reality, she is a cripple, lacking confidence, and is a fragile and distant existence

This is the first time I have encountered a death threat, and I cannot let it throw me into a state of confusion

Then the phone rang, and I answered it. It was my mentor calling. He informed me that my photo and address had been found on the person who was arrested. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I began to tremble. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I lost control. I had to get to my mentor's office as soon as possible to meet with the FBI agents

Then, on that foggy Monday afternoon, my close friend (was it Lala at that time?) and I were strolling hand in hand on campus when someone shouted at us: "Hey! Have you heard? Reagan has been shot"

Love should be sacred; it should melt in gentle breaths, dissolve in hazy mornings, and blend into secluded paths. It is the collision of two individuals' thoughts, hearts, souls, and bodies, and it is mutual. Delusions, however, bring suffering, as they are founded solely on that which does not exist.

Thus, I began to contemplate my career. I enjoy school. I hope to stay at Yale forever, working on assignments, reading the stories of those who have long since passed, and smiling knowingly.

Finally, she published an article in a newspaper titled "Why Me?" as her only confession, after which she chose silence, remaining silent for a full sixteen years

They each gave me different advice, and I did not know whose to follow. The information leaked so quickly that the newspaper knew more about the inside story than any of us. I bought a local newspaper to learn more details. Thus, I encountered perhaps the thing I feared the most—media attacks against me—they devised all sorts of headlines and rushed to the school to seize my sensational news, leaving me powerless to protect myself

I went against the wishes of federal officials and drafted a statement, organizing my own press conference. However, I soon wished for it to conclude quickly, as my presence was entirely superfluous. They had already prepared the news and merely wanted my photo to accompany a caption.

But I no longer have the time to experience these things, as there are many tasks to accomplish and secrets to keep. I want to become tough, like a cowboy. No one has asked me to be this way, but I want to show them (God knows who) that I am strong. I want them to see that Judy is so composed, so adept at controlling the situation, that nothing can bring her down

John Sinclair's greatest fault lies in his conflation of love and delusion. His ignorance only provokes me to assert that he is wrong far too often. Love is a source of happiness, while delusion is pitiable. It is the result of self-indulgence. This is a lesson I have learned from this incident. I will remain vigilant regarding the "love" that others claim to have for me.

I cannot help but feel deceived by those people holding microphones. Suddenly, these individuals possess the power to destroy my life, simply because it is their "job." I was once told that this is how public figures are treated. Yet, interestingly, those wielding the flashlights, notepads, and cameras are also afraid

In fact, being understood by others is not the most important thing in life. (One can only say that there are very few women in the world like Jodie Foster)

He said when he was arrested, "I am too beautiful." He was sitting in the auditorium watching my performance at the time, and I do not know why he suddenly changed his mind

These prominent figures in academia have suddenly been reduced to ignorant students, with no time to prepare those printed speeches filled with jargon. We had no choice but to pick up some scraps of paper to take action. I began frantically making phone calls, reaching out to lawyers and the FBI, those who might have experience in handling such incidents.

In human society, the power of survival surpasses any other emotion

I returned to the classroom, joking with others and bringing joy to everyone. I tried not to acknowledge that I had noticed some changes. I seemed to have become a returning battle hero, but I did not want their awe. I did not want to be a politician, nor did I want to be a victim of society. Therefore, I narrowed my social circle, only spending time with my boyfriend (who has not yet turned into a lesbian) and my bodyguard. I did not want to be a politician, nor did I want to be a victim of society. Therefore, I narrowed my social circle, only spending time with my boyfriend (who has not yet turned into a lesbian) and my bodyguard.

I laugh in a strange and hypocritical manner, yet I cannot control it. I truly cannot control it. In this great laughter, I convulse; I have been hurt. I no longer think about any president, any perpetrator, any assassination, or any news media. I only weep for myself. I, the innocent victim. In the end, the one who pays the highest price can only be me

In fact, I truly feel that I am deceiving myself; even at Yale, I have not escaped the performance.

I firmly believe this, and my subconscious is also encouraging me. In fact, at critical moments when everything seems shattered, you often find the strength you never dared to imagine, just like those miraculous mothers who rescue their children from under two-ton trucks.

The harm it has caused me will never fade. I cannot understand, cannot forgive, and cannot forget it. In the past, a gentle kiss from my mother and her words of "everything will be alright" always soothed my wounds. But this time it will not. Nothing will be alright!! It will not!

At 10:30 PM, I staggered back to the dormitory. Before I could insert the key into the lock, my roommate had already opened the door

Yet this matter still deeply shocked me, as if a ton of steel had fallen from the thirtieth floor. Death is so simple, so easy, so close at hand. Pulling the trigger is as convenient as pressing a television remote. Just days after the most bizarre assassination in history, I took to the stage; what exactly am I trying to prove? What am I even doing? (This incident is practically the best material for a Hollywood movie; who knows, when Judy grows old, it might just be adapted for the big screen.) Just days after the most bizarre assassination in history, I took to the stage; what exactly am I trying to prove? What am I even doing? (This incident is practically the best material for a Hollywood movie; who knows, when Judy grows old, it might just be adapted for the big screen.)

What happened to him? Has he written to me again?

In the summer of 1980, while planning my future, I continued with my life. I contemplated how to gain entry into elite women's organizations such as the Ivy League Society. I purchased a large number of Lacoste brand clothes (the French brand with the crocodile logo, if I recall correctly) and lifted dumbbells every morning, while in the afternoons, I played tennis

They are desperately concealing their fear, awe, and guilt. As I watch them gather before me, I realize that I will have to deal with these individuals in the future; when I see them quietly and solemnly awaiting my statement, I know it is time for me to once again play the role of the cowboy. I will tell them that nothing can interrupt my life, and if they wish to see a weak version of me, I will not grant them that satisfaction

At that time, Judy was engrossed in her studies at Yale University. She felt particularly bewildered by the sudden turn of events, being doubted, questioned, isolated, and alienated. The FBI's inquiries and the prejudice and criticism from society persisted for several months, causing Judy immense emotional distress. She could not understand what she had done wrong.

After this incident, I underwent a significant change, at least that is what I have been told. I began to contemplate death. All along, the light emitted by the camera flash resembled the spark produced when a trigger is pulled, and I felt as though everyone in the crowd was watching me

After the incident, life must go on. I once again took to the stage at Yale, surrounded by numerous campus security officers protecting me in the auditorium. Although I nearly broke down at one point, I resolved to continue performing regardless. Others may not care, but there are certain beliefs I must prove to myself, even if it seems foolish.

John! This was the first sentence she spoke

It is very simple; I want the audience, the actors, and my peers to like me

I cannot help but ask myself: why me? Why not someone else, like Brooke Shields? These questions make me feel very ugly, and the more I feel ugly, the harder it is for me to let go.

Some people confuse love with delusion, and there are also those who are hurt by these delusional individuals. I express my deep regret regarding this matter

What is the allure of "Taxi Driver"? How great is the charm of Jodie Foster? Perhaps charm is beyond description; she is like a magic arrow that can pierce through the hearts of others

This female celebrity is Jodie Foster

I am merely ten feet away from death Ten feet away from the madman holding a gun Ten feet I cannot be certain but I do not care I tell myself that even in the toughest moments Jodie Foster has persevered Nothing can bring her down At least on the surface that is how it appears

How is that possible! Are you talking nonsense?

To this day, I am still astonished by my decision to continue performing at Yale; the drama is simply driving me crazy, and I know nothing about it. However, one of my friends is the director of this play, and many of my peers have also taken on roles in it. I believe I am acting for the wrong reasons.

I rushed to a friend's place, and when she came out of the shower, we had a few beers together. I tried to prove to myself that I could handle it all. I smiled and joked, just like a good actor.

Yale is unique, and I hope to gain recognition there. I participated in all the new life activities, trying to make everyone feel that I am ordinary, just like them. However, after a few weeks, I realized that I could not. I had to socialize with producers, contact agents, and pose for photographers. It was not until at least two years later that I discovered there is nothing wrong with being a little special; in fact, it can be quite good.

John Sinkley

Which John? I was a bit confused at that moment

Yale will not abandon any of its children, and those Yale alumni with law degrees were called upon to guide my actions, yet no one knows exactly what I should do

Perhaps John Hinckley believed that only such sacrifice and devotion would be sufficient to attract a glance from the goddess of his heart. However, what he could not foresee was that the world did not choose to forget this absurd assassination due to his history of mental illness; instead, it placed the innocent Judy at the center of condemnation.

In 1981, yet another President of the United States was assassinated—almost all the intelligent Presidents have met their demise at the hands of their own people. Perhaps this actor-turned-President was not clever enough, as he was fortunate to survive. John Hinckley, the most obsessive fan of Jodie Foster, ambushed the newly inaugurated Ronald Reagan outside the Hilton Hotel in Washington, D.C., and his actions were merely to attract the attention of the movie star he loved to the point of madness. He was fortunate to survive—John Hinckley, the most obsessive fan of Jodie Foster, ambushed the newly inaugurated Ronald Reagan outside the Hilton Hotel in Washington, D.C., and his actions were merely to attract the attention of the movie star he loved to the point of madness.

However, a few days after the performance, I found a note at my doorstep threatening to kill me. I pinched one corner of it, gently lifted it up, and handed it over to the police. My mother, who was about to go to Paris, was nearly going mad; she wanted me to leave with her and wanted me by her side. I told her that her insistence only made me more anxious, and that the bodyguards surrounding me could take better care of me.

They fired bullets at me, pulled the trigger on me, and practiced those most fundamental laws. They did not physically touch me, yet they successfully harmed me. They needed a sacrifice, and I happened to fit the criteria. They could witness how a once proud and steadfast star falls, how I yield under their assault. Their words, threats, and accusations are secondary; what they truly desire is to exert influence over me, to make me stop playing the cowboy, to pull me down from the screen. They could witness how a once proud and steadfast star falls, how I yield under their assault. Their words, threats, and accusations are secondary; what they truly desire is to exert influence over me, to make me stop playing the cowboy, to pull me down from the screen. (They must be the media, right?)