Coffee Taker

I will stop caring and you won’t know it. You’ll be oblivious like you were to Sarah Chalke joining Roseanne, or Russell Brand leaving radio, just the one station specifically.

And the days sweep so that some sight lines are totally obscured and you forget what genuineness is, that genuineness is a word, not mistake, and every attribute you sought to high-school-lose, and acclimatise until you were someone else entirely, the man in the office that girl-gets, you accentuate until you’re the stereotyped version of yourself and you don’t know how you got there: think Zach Braff, after the indie film which should’ve cemented personality but somehow didn’t.

But there’s still time to rewrite your own version and not buckle to other people’s storylines for you: I think Zach’s on stage now. I watch you sink into carpet like it’s coffee and you’re Demerara and you almost integrate entirely, and the carpet is office gray.

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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.