____ Buddy

Movies are misleading, make it seem like there’s a point in everyone’s life they sleep with a friend, that they end up together, that this problem in general fills the space of a ninety minute film, which converts to six months real time, unless it’s Linklater, Allen, or Burns.

Even if we’re allowed discretions and I have it on authority we are – forgiveness is a sorry away – life’s more awkward than Natalie Portman, not polished like Timberlake. We’re not attractive and slick yet unlucky in love. We’re just unlucky. We don’t compulsively fuck who we know because they told an awesome joke once, they notice us lose weight. Or when we do we call it ‘mistake’.



Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Jack says, “You fit under that heading. If that’s a concept, a recurring character, the woman that writers write when they’re writing films, that’s you. You’re it.”

I ask him for definitions and he shows me Wikipedia and I say, “Well that’s hardly comprehensive,” and he laughs, says, “Sure, there are other films too, maybe a hundred more they’ve missed off this list.”

So we list them and after Jack runs a finger down my neck and says, “We should be specific about this. We should pin down each actress that’s played this, each person that’s made this film.” I ask what that’ll achieve and he shrugs.

I stare at the Artex-ed ceiling wondering what they have in common that I don’t have:

1. They’re all waifs.

2. They can act.

3. They’ve kissed Jim Carrey, Zach Braff, Orlando Bloom.

4. They advertise make-up in magazines.

5. They didn’t check their bank balance in 100 years.