A Life in the Movies

Hello all,

I am writing you today from the Borders at Keystone and am wondering why the movies are the way they are when life isn't like that at all. Doesn't art imitate life or vise versa, either way they should be more like eachother. For instance, there is a naturally blonde-haired man sitting across from me and we have exchanged a few glances, he is reading an odd combination of Design Outdoors (some decorator mag for log cabins) and Vibe magazine. Gay? He has not yet smiled at me but he is constantly looking at me. He's cute enough, 5'11, blue eyes, good hair. But seriously, if we were in the movies, we'd be exchanging witty banter and numbers by now.

I think because of my parents focus on my active older brothers and me being raised mainly by TV, I have acquired a delusional version of reality on which to base my life choices. Like, I am still not over the whole break up thing, seriously, I cry everyday! EVERYDAY! It's like someone is pumping my body full of estrogen every night and not telling me. Indie music at the end of Grey's Anatomy on DVD-CRY, listening to any song on the radio-CRY, getting ready for bed at night-CRY. ALL THE TIME- CRY. In the movies I'd be totally OK after a musical montage, I'm thinking maybe something by Leona Lewis or maybe J. Hud......ooh or Fantasia.

Christ on a stick!

Even on Sex and the City, Carrie got some rebound guy and cried in his mouth while she was trying to get over Big. Where's my rebound guy?!?! Mom said last night that I needed to focus on my career (what career?) or maybe on exercise (so now I'm fat?) to get my mind off of how crappy things are. Ug, stock answers. If she would have gotten someone from Pushing Daisies or Frasier to say that I would think maybe she was right. But who am I to believe her?

Oh, if life were like TV or the movies.... Well, for starters, the blonde-haired guy, who has already left, would have come up to me and invited out to see the preview of the new Disney movie Bolt in 3D and then we would have taken a meandering walk by the canal, where he would invite me to his town house 2 blocks away. After that, we would open a bottle of red (It's so late! What am I thinking? Oh, I hadn't noticed how late it was.) and fall asleep, simultaneously, in eachother's arms on his sectional sofa until I was awaken by brunch the next day with no sign of bed head or that I had drooled all over the pillow.