An exercise in self-control, or: trying to not explode, implode or say anything I might regret.  Or, therapy:

To:  The Girl in my Screenwriting Class


When our professor asked us for a location I said “restaurant” and when he said be more specific, you answered, then said sorry–as if you were expecting me to be upset.  Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.

Then, when he asked for an age for our protagonist (Betty) and the crickets and cicadas gave their unintelligible answers while everyone else sat in silence, I said she was forty-one.

Why such a specific age?  I hadn’t figured it out yet.

We continued co-writing this story together as a class, and when it veered into a direction I thought was unoriginal and not fun, I moved on and re-imagined the story my own way.

When class was over, I turned to my friend, who was sitting next to me, and I said: “I figured out why she’s forty-one.”

For some reason, you hung around and waited to hear the answer.  While that was uncomfortable, I went ahead and ignored you and continued speaking.

“It’s because she has cancer…”

That was when you scoffed.

Uh, excuse me?

“Why would that be significant?”  You asked.

And then you made the mistake of talking to me like I just sang the Legally Blonde “OMIGOD” song.  Spoiler alert: I hadn’t.

I ignored you and finished my sentence.

“…she wasn’t supposed to live past forty, any year after that is a significant point in her life.”

You sounded disappointed when you said “oh”.

I tried to walk out of the classroom with my friend and you followed behind, telling me that I was in your “theater class.”  Spoiler alert: I’m not in a theater class.  But I work two floors above that department, so despite the fact that you were obviously raised by wolves or Steven Baldwin, I went ahead and responded with a smile.  But you spoke over me saying “NO, it’s a film class.  It’s right before this and you are in it.”

First, you’re pretty unexceptional so there’s no reason I would remember you.  Second, there are at least one hundred and fifty people in that class so I will never remember your face (or at least, I’ll try not to).  Third, film and theater are not synonymous, dumbass.

So next week, when we turn in the first three pages of our screenplay (I know, we move fast), I just want you to be warned that I’m a creative writing major–with a film minor–which means little more than this:  when I want to be, I can play the part of pretentious hipster really well.  And. spoiler alert: next week, I will want to be a pretentious hipster.

You mess with the bulls, you get the yadda yadda, you know what I’m saying?