I wish life felt more like a movie.
Or maybe I wish I was born in the 80’s.
80’s and indie films had a vibe to them I crave to experience. I want to collect all my most eventful moments in life and edit in some background music and add some pink filter to each scenario.
But I’ve had too many let down expectations that I’m beginning to think I’m a convert to realism (dear God I hope not). I mean I don’t wish for perfectly timed intrusions or music suddenly playing when I kiss a boy. I don’t wish for surreal surprises or sweet gestures which only happen in old films and music videos with synchronized bursts of musicals. I don’t wish to be that (supposedly-unattractive-(but-the-actress-is-unfairly-really-good-looking)-loner-who-for-some-reason-everyone-finds-weird-so-they-stay-away-from-or-bully-her) protagonist of the story who unsurprisingly (because she’s our main character, duh) catches the eye of fame or good fortune. I don’t even wish for time slowing down when some over dramatic scene takes place.
However I secretly wish and hope, with crossed fingers, that there’s some oscar winning director up there, out there, somewhere, looking after me.
I have far too few adventures and excitement in life to be experiencing this number of idle days, bad days and regret. Like, where’s the balance? Where’s my John Travolta? Where’s my stroke of luck disguised as misfortune? Where’s my empowered gang of misfits? Where’s my breakfast club? Where are the grown ups feeding me cheesy wisdom and backing me up on all my dumb luck? Where’s the scene wherein I am the one surrounded, where I get to tell my sweet summer story instead of me being the one always hankering it out of one of my girlfriends?
But wait! Plot twist: it’s a one man show! Too bad I suck at direction and playing my roles right. & don’t even get me started on my abundance of bad timing and too daydreamy script writing. Maybe it’s true that life’s all a game of luck and that there was no one, no big encounter, to bump into when you turn that curb. Just an awkward moment and a dirty, stepped on shoe. Well damn, Nicholas Sparks. Damn, John Hughes. Damn, fiction for making a girl like me pretend to detest cheesy romance and fate and big dreams and never admit how much I actually look out for it.
I just wish I had a fantastic wardrobe at least.