"If I Were Attracted To Girls, I'd Be Attracted To You"

Next up in my line of obsessive motifs is My So-Called Life, an amazing show from the 90's that's famous for being a clear, honest, raw lens into the lives if American teenagers as they really were then (and now): sex, drugs, drinking, pain, laughter, anger, friendships, love...it was all there. It had it. One of the best shows ever made.

And it was canceled due to low ratings.

Part of me hates so so so much the fact that there are only nineteen episodes. I love these characters now. I want to know more, more, more. I want them to grow and change over time. I want plot. I want movement. I want a future.

But another part of me is sort of glad that it ended so early in its life on screen. The world of Rayanne and Angela, Sharon and Rickie, Brian and Delia, Graham and Patty, Jordan and Danielle...it'll always be there somewhere, in the murkiness of unwritten stories. I can think and hope and wonder about how things worked out for them. I can discard things I don't like--in my mind, Graham and Patty drove each other crazy and went in circles for decades but never split, never let their love crumble at the core--and make sure what I want happens--Rickie finds a boy to love, Angela is forced to grow up and choose between Jordan Catalano and the ever-suffering Brian, Rayanne and Sharon ride closer and closer together until maybe they bump and hit and collide. My version of their future is probably farther than anything from where they would have gone. And that's a comforting thought. There are multiple futures, and there always will be. It never twisted itself into knots like Grey's Anatomy and Ugly Betty, and there's no longing for past days of splendor, because all we have are the days of splendor.

I'm sad the show died. But in a weird way, it feels right. It doesn't actually feel like it died; it feels like it wandered off to do its own thing, like every teenager does at some point.

There are some beautiful moments that I'm so hung up on, and most of them have to do with Rickie. As always, I gravitate towards the gay men in the story, and Rickie got my attention from the beginning. Always lonely, always awkward, always trying to fit in a badly-cut niche. Rickie is the character I love to love. He has two people in the world who love him; that must make everyone else pretty terrifiying. I want him to have his happiness. And of all the growth I missed, I think Rickie's is the one I most regret missing out on.

There's a wonderful, wonderful moment at the very end of the series when Rickie, in an attempt to, as he says, take advanatge of his "one chance...to be straight," asks out Delia, a cute girl with a crush on him. Looking confused, she says, "But...you're gay, right?" Rickie hems and hawes, all the while looking completely blind-sided; then, throwing down his pencil, he says with a weary sort of peace, "Yeah. I'm gay." The honesty and total lack of pretension in that moment is incredible. There's no swell of music or melodramatic exposition. There's only a scared, hiding teenage boy coming out for the first time to an understanding prescence, who's not even a main character. It was beautifully written and beauitfully acted, and the entire scene has a aura of gentle sweetness to it: Delia goes on to explain why she has a crush on Rickie, who admits he's never said out loud that he's gay before. They close with Rickie turning to Delia and saying, "Delia, if I were attracted to girls, I'd be attracted to you." Then they hold hands.

Yeah, I loved it. What can I say?

Probably more on this later, if I don't self-destruct first.

Welcome To The Family, Walker Nathaniel Diggs

Idina Menzel and Taye Diggs had a baby. His name is Walker Nathaniel Diggs, he was born on September 2, 2009, and the odds are he'll grow up to be absurdly good looking and talented.

The RENT OBC used to feel like family to me. They still do now, but in a different way. Looking at pictures of Idina and aye with their son, I felt a sudden, familiar and yet strange sense of intimacy. Idina and Taye used to be constantly in my life. Pictures of them, interviews, their voices, their presence. Now they feel like my cousins in England. I love them and have small reminders of them every so often--but no real connection at the present. Nothing concrete from recent times. And I miss them.

It must be weird for the OBC. Go on to do other work, live their lives, have a million diferent experiences, and yet people keep pestering them and connecting with them about something they did almost fourteen years ago. Some have children now (Adam, Idina and Taye, Daphne, and Gilles, to name a few) and are married; some, like Jesse and Idina, have had careers that separate in some ways from RENT. But most of them--Adam, Anthony, Wilson--are superglued to it. Their entire image is about something they did in their twenties. They're almost forty, most of them; a few are past that. When they're sixty, people will still be asking them about it.

In some ways, it's a sweet deal. Imagine your whole life being about the worst thing you ever did--if it's about one of the best things, you lucked out. But still, twenty years past the date and people are still scrounging for details--it must not always be fun. It must be so tiring sometimes. I don't know. I love them, because I feel like I know them and because they saved me when I was drifting, time and again. I love them, because their family expanded to include me. I love them, because their story and their words, along with RENT and all of its magic, make me who I am today. And I miss them. And I would feel ridiculous if I were them, if a play I did when I was twenty-six has a sixteen year old who I have never met loving me and "knowing" me. I would feel like a fool.

And at the same time, I have to believe that they understand what they did for us. For me. How RENT is a story that endures, and they were such a part of it that they endure along with it. If I can ever affect anyone the way Gwen Stewart or Fredi Walker or Aiko Nakasone or Byron Utley or Wilson Jermaine Heredia have affected me, I'll be satisfied in life. They mean something to me. I want to mean something to someone.

I love them. I thank them. And no matter how far away they are from me, or I from them, they will always be my family.

Inertia

When people ask the "if you could only have/do/watch _____ for the rest of your life, what would it be?" I can't give them an answer. It's illogical to answer something like that. No one can conceive a lifetime of something. One image, one taste, one possession, one action...everything is temporary. The rest of my life is hopefully a long time. Sometimes, I feel awed by how little I have planned for it.

If I could be one place for as long as I wanted--without interruption, without major change, completely stable and constant--it would be in a cabin on a mountain in Maine or New Hampshire. I would have pets with me: a cat, a dog, maybe a bird or a snake if I really wanted one. But I would be alone. No other people. No one to talk to, no one within hearing range, no one for miles. How weird is that? Most people crave social interaction. I love to be with people, but at the end of the day, I need to be alone inside my head. And if my head was as beautiful as the White Mountains are--winter or summer--I'm not sure how long I would stay there before I missed people. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. Maybe as long as it took me to get bored. Because no matter how beautiful o wonderful or special something is, it can't be stunning forever. Familiarity doesn't always breed contempt; if you're not careful, it will breed apathy.

School starts the day after tomorrow. I'm looking forward to seeing teachers, trying out new classes, mentoring the freshies. But past that...god, I don't know. The same little aches and pains every day, from people and work and those moments where I think about everything that I hate thinking about. School forces me to do things. It's a fact of life. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

God, I could probably enjoy the whole fucking thing if I put my mind to it. Let the snubs and the dislike roll off my back. Fill my head with the things that make me happy, to hell with the rest of it. But I can't. I can work my ass off and only talk to the people I want to and just cruise along, but it'll all come back to what happens in my head. And I can't cruise through any of that.

I hope. I hope I hope I hope. I hope that I won't spend the rest of my life doing things I hate because they'll put me on par with all the overachievers around me. Please, God or whoever's up there, I don't want to spend my life in a cubicle or behind a register, becoming bitter and angry because I couldn't succeed at what I loved. Please please please. I'll do anything and everything to not let that happen. I want to go to college and find out what I want to do with my life. I want to have some fucking direction, and I don't want it to come from trying to do everything everyone else is doing. I'm not my friends. I'm me. And if I waste my life, I'll never forgive myself.

And now for an 360 in subject change:

Unlike most people, I do not have shoulder-angels and shoulder-devils. I have a shoulder-Harpo Marx, a shoulder-Tom Collins, and a shoulder-Hamlet. The Harpo is the childish, comic, carefree, sneaky part of me. The Collins is the laid-back, chill, deep-thinking, philosophical, living-my-friends part of me. The Hamlet is the angsty, whiny, aggressive, sensitive, lamenting part of me. I also have Douglas Adams and Edna St. Vincent Millay, but they're not on my shoulder. They hide in my hair and never bother anyone, except when I want them to.

Shimmering Trees

Just as my family goes to Martha's Vineyard every year, so do we go to Newry, Maine, every year. This year, some things are different. But most things are wonderfully, beautifully, soothingly the same.

Our house is right on the side of the road, but it's flanked by an old barn that's usually filled with gigantic rolls of hay. Hale, Tomek and I clambered all over them one day, and then they left and I was all alone. The hay smelled musty and dry, and it was raining lightly outside, so I just lay back and stared up at the ceiling in the barn. Because the sky outside was that bright, blinding kind of overcast-grey, it shone through the tiny holes in the roof like stars in a metal sky. The points of light overhead, combined with the fog on the ground and the hushing of the rain outside, made me feel a bit like I was dreaming. I half-expected a spirit or a ghost or a runaway slave to rise up out of the hay and start talking to me. It was beautiful and peaceful and cozy. I watched the stars get dimmer and dimmer as the invisible sun went down, and the next night there were no clouds and I could see real stars, half-blacked out by the outrageously bright moon.

We're surrounded by open space. The second I got out of the car when we first got here, I ran off and just ran over the fields and hills around the house. There's this big sloping plane of grass behind the barn, and it's separated from the river by a line of trees. Past the end of that first field, there was another hilly area that used to empty, as I recall, but now has a house and a vegetable garden gracing it. There's a tall wooden pole with a tattered American flag at the end, and two more poles branching out over the garden that have sparkly owl cutouts hanging from them to scare away pesky birds. And from that second field, you can work your way down to the Bear River.

That river is such a a good friend of mine. I've been playing with it for years, and my family has its share of anecdotes that took place in or around its banks. The water is always absolutely freezing, because it's melted snow and ice that runs down from the White Mountains (they surround our cabin). But once you get used to it (read: numb), it's so much fun to be in. For one thing, the water is so clear that if you hold your breath and bring your face close to the surface, you can see perfectly down to the bottom, which may be five or more feet beneath you. Mica is scattered all across the sand in the riverbed, and when the sun hits just the right spot the entire river glitters like it's got Christmas light strung through it. The clear water, cold as it is, is fascinating for a child of seven or eight, and even more so for a teenager of sixteen. I swear, I spent about fifteen minutes today looking at my foot underwater. Craziness, yo.

I haven't even gotten to the best part about the river: the current. It's got a lively, mischievous current that doesn't just flow; it pushes you back and forth and bangs you against rocks and sweeps your legs out from under you and tumbles you backwards until finally something painfully stops you. The entire riverbed is set with rocks in varying degrees of size, slipperiness, and ability to cause pain. Some rocks are big and flat and covered in soft black moss. Some rocks are dull and ridged in such a way that when you step on one, it hurts so much you're forced to stumble backwards and step on another rock which, needless to say, causes even more pain than the first. And some rocks are like chunky sand piled on top of flat bedrock, so that stepping on them hurts like hell as well, because it's like rubbing the bottom of your feet with a dull cheese grater.

Anyway, the current. The current will be merciless when it comes to the rocks, but it's slightly more affable if you know it well. There's a special place that's been our homebase on the river since I was a baby: two giant boulders, embedded in the earth, sit on either side of the ride. Actually, they're not boulders, they're parts of the bedrock the riverbed lies in that have been carved into two little islands of dry safety. However, you can totally tell that the river wasn't always so forgiving of them: they're worn almost completely smooth, with graceful paths and ridges winding through across them from millenia of water-wear. Beneath the lichen and dead leaves, the rock is as ancient as the concept of sunning yourself on a pleasant patch of moss, and that's saying something.

Between the two rocks, there's a lumpy place where the current flows fast and furious. It's also been worn down to a smooth, curving surface with little splotches of black moss dotting it. Here, the water makes the best shapes, including the Horn: a small, glassy-smooth mound of water that rises out of the river like it's got a mind of its own. Some of my earliest memories are over rafting over this little bit of rapids and coasting through the current to my father, who played catcher so none of the kids would be swept off downriver. It's wonderful to get over that Horn, but it's a bitch to climb back up towards it. Like the rest of the bedrock, the water has made the rock smooth as an ice rink, and trying to struggle against a strong-minded current with nothing to hold onto but a slick patch of rock is something I like to call "futile." Fun and tiring as hell, but you don't have much of a chance. Sure, you could walk--but where's the fun in that?

There's a lot more about the Bear River I could talk about: the rock that looks like a pile of candle wax, where I love to sun myself and read, and where it's so smooth I always lose my footing and fall into the water; the stillwater, where you can float and soak until you're so numb the rocks don't bother you anymore; the island of beach where my dad and stepmom like to hang. I could even pass on the story about my little sister losing her swimsuit in that river, but I won't. Time is short and Hale probably wouldn't appreciate it anyway.

Going over the river is a bridge, made of wood and usually the place where farmers and such drive their ATVs. I walk over it, though--and never fail to spit into the river on either the going or coming trip--and get to a wonderful field on the other side. This field is shaped like the number 8 and it completely surrounded by trees. The mountains poke over the edge in a couple places, and sometimes you can hear and see some traffic from the road in the distance; but overall, that place is one of the most peaceful spots I've ever been in. I'm pretty sure animals go through it sometimes, and it's definitely used for farming. But this late in the summer, it's just a carpet of dead grass and green gras twisted together, with weeds and bugs peeking through. The sun casts longer and longer shadows as it sinks behind the trees, but before it disappear forever I get as much sunshine as I can. It's so warm and quiet out there: just me, the bugs, and the plants. Lovely.

Today, I listened to music, read my Harpo Marx book, listened to the cicadas, and dozed for a bit on the grass. As the sun started to go down and the light got yellower and deeper, I woke up and watched the trees. When the wind blew, the leaves would twist and flutter wildly; in the light from the setting sun, they switched from bright to shadowed faster than the eye could follow. It was like watching the air turn green and start to dance. The trees were shimmering, there was no other word for it, and I watched them until the light went away and I had to go home.

I hope that my children will have the chance to see the trees shimmer.

Not much else about nature. The house is wonderful, same as always. God, I have so many memories about this house: playing "Lion, Lion, Run De Hills" with my sister and cousins, cuddling up with my mom and dad in their squeaky-framed bed, catching grasshoppers in the grass out front. My sister and I have always slept in the exact same place: two twin beds, her near the sloped ceiling and me next to the window, with the same bedside table and the same lamp and the same dresser in the corner. If I close my eyes, I can summon it--the feel of it, the view from the bed, the sense of comfort and safety, everything. In fact, there are two rooms I can do this with: the room in Martha's Vineyard and the room in Maine.

This week, I slept in a different room.

It's been very hard. I hate change, everyone knows that, and yet I chose to change here. Why? Well, the downstairs room is separate, I can stay up as late as I want without pissing people off, and it's very cozy. On the other hand, I still feel a strong urge to go upstairs and curl up in the same bed I've been sleeping in since I was two. I don't know. We all have to grow up, but do we have to do it so painfully?

Apprehensive about upcoming school year, but, case in point, must work on bio summer work. Will post later. Au revoir, amigos.

(Yes, that was on purpose.)

Aching

I would do absolutely anything in this world to hear my father talk to me the way he did when I was little.

This is why I don't watch baby videos. Because I see how my family used to be, even before my sister came along: my mother was so beautiful, and my father's voice is so happy. He never talks like that now. He's never happy like that anymore. I want to hear him speak that way again so badly, it's literally an ache in my chest and arms.

We were never the perfect family. My parents had a rocky marriage right from the beginning, and neither of them are saints. But when I watch the videos of me as a tiny baby, splashing around in the bath and bouncing in my bouncy-chair, I can see how happy that made them. How happy I made them. They may not have been the world's best people, but they loved me so completely, and they were wonderful parents. Now everything is different. Everything is totally different. They still love me, but they don't love each other. And they don't love me in the same way.

My parents love me just as strongly now as they did when I was a baby. I know that. But I'm not tiny and adorable anymore. Today, my mother launched into a five-minute tirade about some problems she's having with a friend. She told me she "wanted my wisdom." I love that my mother and I have such a great relationship. With her, I can be a grown up or a little kid. I can be weak and angry, strong and purposeful, and everything else in between. She still calls me names like "honey" and "bunny." I love my mother.

I love my father. But I don't feel like "daddy's little girl" anymore. He never calls me anything other than "Es", "Esther", or maybe "Jojo" if he's in a hurry. He used to have all sorts of names for me, and the way he said them...I can't describe it, but it made me feel so safe, so cared about. It made me feel like I was special because my dad loved me. And the tone in his voice as he talks to Baby!Me is the best part. He is absolutely happy. I made him happy. I can't do that anymore.

I want that so badly. I want to be able to talk to my dad like he's my dad again, instead having all this distance and pressure and unspoken stuff between us. I don't know how to explain what's changed. Part of it is age; I want to be younger and older at the same time, and he wants me to be younger. In trying to treat me like an adult, he treats me like I'm a friend or a cousin. Not a daughter. I want to be treated like a daughter. I am a daughter. I'm his daughter. And I love him so much, and I miss him so much.

I want to be the adorable baby who makes the crazy cackling noise. I want to jump around in my crib and play with my busybox and throw my sunglasses on the ground. I want my daddy to carry me around in the backpack, and I want my mommy to dry me off with my puppy towel when I'm done with my bath. Most of all, I want to have grown up into the person that little baby deserved to be. And right now, I don't think I have.

I miss my father. I miss being able to touch him like a dad, and speak to him like a dad, and lean on him like a dad. Just once, I want to be the center of his universe again. And I know how selfish that sounds, and right now I don't care.

I would do anything, give anything, and be anything if I could just hear him call me "his girl" one more time.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Parody: In Progress

YES, I have no life. We have established this.
------------------------------------------------------------

PRIVET DRIVE

What is Not In This Movie:

Dursleys: We hate everyone who is not us.

Wizards of England: WOOT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED GOT SPLODED! WOOOOOOOT!

Mr. Dursley: I especially hate happy people who are not me.

Wizards of England: mumblemumblePOTTERSbrumblebrumbleHARRYfumblefumbleFAMOUSHEROES…

Mr. Dursley: Oh hell no.

TV Anchor: Well, Tom, reports are coming in from all across Britain of owls descending from the sky like God’s wrath in avian form. Also, unexplained fireworks are appearing out of nowhere, plagues of locusts have arrived and Christ has possibly risen again.

Christian Fundies: *are already outraged*

What is In This Movie:

Dumbledore: *kills streetlights with cigarette lighter*

Audience: What a clever little machine. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see it again, though, meaningless and trivial as it is.

People Who Have Read The Books: noobs.

McGonagall: Today I have been chased by four toddlers with sticky hands, had my tail pulled by that asshat down the street, and apparently caught fleas from the neighbors’ dog, all because you told me to sit here and stare at the Muggles to freak them out. You better give me some really juicy details about all this hullabaloo, Albus.

Dumbledore: Fine. Voldemort is dead.

McGonagall: That’s good.

Dumbledore: So are Lily and James Potter.

McGonagall: That’s bad.

Dumbledore: But their son Harry is alive!

McGonagall: That’s good.

Dumbledore: Which means he’s now a homeless orphan with a curse scar.

McGonagall: That’s bad.

Dumbledore: Don’t worry, though. I sent Hagrid to get him.

McGonagall: Albus, you utter fuckwit.

Dumbledore: Oh, Hagrid’s totally trustworthy. He hasn’t unleashed vicious monsters on the children or blown up any major architecture for several months now!

McGonagall: *faceplam*

Hagrid: ‘Allo, all! Got the little bugger, Dumbledore. Blimey, he’s teeny. Holding him in my great big clumsy arms…why, if I weren’t careful, I might accidently squish him into a fine pulp!

Dumbledore: Hagridgimmethechildnowpleaseandthankyou.

McGonagall: Wait…you’re sending him to live with these people?

Dumbledore: It’ll be good for him. Eleven odd years of misery builds character in young children!

McGonagall: But—

Dumbledore: Trust me, Minerva; I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I’m doing this. You’ll find out five or six books from now.

McGonagall: Oh, well that’s all right then. Thank god for those other books, Albus; without them, people might imagine you were just making this all up as you went along, and had no idea what the fuck you were doing when you screwed around with this boy’s life.

Dumbledore: Oh. Um, yes. Silly folk, them. *to self* Oh shit.

ELEVEN YEARS LATER

Harry: *to random strangers on the street* Please kill me.

Aunt Petunia: Stop talking to people, boy! They might be nice to you, and we’ll have to chain you to a radiator for a month just to undo the damage!

Uncle Vernon: Petunia, pipe down, it’s Dudder’s birthday! Now son, as a present, you’re allowed to eat anything in the house!

Dudley: Anything?

Aunt Petunia: Of course, darling, anything you want! It’s your special day…

Dudley: *eyeing Harry* Hmmm…

Harry: I taste like spiders and child abuse! I’m high in carbohydrates and trans-fats! PLEASE DON’T DEVOUR ME WHOLE!

Dudley: Eh. Too stringy. Mum, Dad, can we go to the zoo? I fancy some blue whale fillet.

ZOO

Harry: *to snake* Wish that someone would come along with a sledgehammer and end your suffering? Yeah, I’ve been there.

Dudley: *throws Harry to the ground and spits on him* MY SNAKE NOT YOURS!

Harry: By the power of all that is good and holy in this world, SMITE THAT ASSHOLE!

Glass: *disappears*

Harry: YUSS.

Dudley: *is now on display as the zoo’s first specimen of spoiledus dumbfuckius.

Snake: Brazil ho!

PRIVET DRIVE

Uncle Vernon: GET IN THAT CUPBOARD AND DON’T COME OUT UNTIL YOU’VE MADE THE TRANSITION BETWEEN ADORABLE CHILD ACTOR TO TEENAGE MOVIE STAR HEARTHROB WHO GETS NAKED WITH HORSES ON BROADWAY!

Harry: But—but—but—

Uncle Vernon: OR JUST STAY IN THERE FOR A WEEK OR SOMETHING, WHATEVER.

LATER, PRIVET DRIVE

Harry: Wow, a letter for me! I’ll just bring it into the kitchen and read it there. Uncle Vernon certainly won’t mind.

Uncle Vernon: Give me that letter and then go lick the toilet clean.

Harry: I am inexplicably surprised by this turn of events.

Letters: *continue to arrive*

Owls: *set up a youth hostel and canteen on the Durleys’ roof*

Uncle Vernon: *twitch* Thank god it’s Sunday! *twitch* Wonderful day, Sunday! *twitch* I LOVE SUNDAY SO BLOODY MUCH!

Letters: *pour in through the fireplace, mail slot, windows, sink, toilets, etc.*

Harry: *jumps up and down to catch one, creating a lovely shot that will undoubtedly be used in the movie trailer but unfortunately losing the opportunity to actually get away with a letter*

Uncle Vernon: Petunia, pack the essentials and stuff the offspring in the back. We’re leaving in two minutes or I’m going to spontaneously combust.

Aunt Petunia: *sigh* Not again…

SCARY OLD HOUSE ON SEA

Adult Dursleys: *snore*

Dudley: *snore*

Harry: Even the cockroaches hate me.

Cockroaches: You stole our floor and invaded our personal space, bitch!

Harry: Woops, just turned eleven. What shall I wish for? Sudden, unannounced stranger to come and take me away from this hellhole? Or an Uzi to take revenge on t hose who have tortured me for a decade? Hmmm…well, I guess I’ll wish for—

Hagrid: *enters through the door suddenly and unannounced, thus preventing another possible case of Crazed Eleven Year Old Mass Murdering* ‘Allo, Harry! Long time no see.

Dursleys: WAAAAAAAAAH!

Harry: Sir? If you wish to consume one or more of the human beings in this dwelling, I beg you to consider starting with my cousin instead of me. He’s much meatier, you see.

Hagrid: Ah, Harry, I’m not here to eat yeh! I’m here to drag yeh off ter wizard school?

Harry: Pardon?

Hagrid: Y’know! The place where they teach yeh what t’do with them there Satan-powers yeh’ve always had!

Harry: Excuse me?

Hagrid: Hogwarts.

Harry: Warts in the what now?

Hagrid: OMG NOT COOL.

Uncle Vernon: Get out! Get out, you giant freak!

Hagrid: *ties a bow in Uncle Vernon’s shotgun* You were saying?

Uncle Vernon: Make yourself at home, my good fellow.

Harry: Hey, about me being a wizard…’splain, please?

Aunt Petunia: My sister was a FREAK. Her husband was a FREAK too. Which makes you FREAK-spawn. Also, your parents were blown to bits when you were one. Happy fucking birthday.

Harry: …no more ‘splainin’, thanks.

Hagrid: Ugh. Harry, I’m beginnin’ to feel really, really bad for dumping you with these twits. If Dumbledore hadn’t insisted—

Uncle Vernon: Dumbledore! Sounds like the name of a seriously disturbed, unpleasant bastard! Definitely the kind of person I would hate!

Hagrid: My pink umbrella would like to have a word with the inside of your arse, Dursley. Would you prefer open or closed?

Dudley: *cake-snarf*

Hagrid: *gives Dudley a pig tail*

Dursleys: WAAAAAAAAAH!

Harry: Hagrid, I think I love you.

Hagrid: Eh, not so fast, Harry. There’s only one gay character in this series, it seems, and we can’t go getting those Christian groups even more riled up, can we? Give them a coronary, it would. Anyway, off we go. Say goodbye to the Dursleys.

Harry: I hope you all rot in hell for eternity.

Hagrid: That’s my boy.

LEAKY CAULDRON

Hagrid: ‘Allo, all! Just passin’ through with a friend of mine, helpin’ him get school supplies. Hey, does anyone have some aloe lotion or something? Little Harry’s CURSE SCAR is getting irritated by all this pollen in the air.

Leaky Cauldron Population: Omigod, omigod, omigod, it’s HIM.

Harry: I can’t decide whether I feel flattered or extremely violated by this show of public adoration for me. Also, Ms. Doris Crockford, I’m underage and not even a teenager yet, so PLEASE remove your hand from my behind.

Doris Crockford: FIRST TO GRAB HIS ARSE! I’M THE FIRST PERSON TO EVER GRAB HARRY POTTER’S ARSE! HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW, BITCHES?

Quirrell: P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-potter!

Hagrid: This is Professor Quirrell. He’s jumpy and rather affected in the head. Nice man, though. Really rocks that turban like it’s going out of style.

Harry: Hagrid? Why does everyone know who I am?

Hagrid: Pipe down, Harry, I’m trying to remember this brick combination…ah, here it is!

Wall: *opens to reveal snowy forest and a single iron lamppost*

Hagrid: Woops. Um…you didn’t see that.

DIAGON ALLEY

People Who Have Read The Books: It’s…it’s beautiful.

People Who Haven’t Read The Book: That place looks sort of crowded and stuffy.

Gringotts: *is apparently The Crooked Bank That Jack Built*

Hagrid: Never try to rob Gringotts, Harry. They have dragons and spells and whatnot, and if the goblins catch you they chew on your spleen and kidneys until you beg for mercy. Seriously, never even think about robbing Gringotts, okay?

Harry: Okay, okay, okay. I’ll probably never have a reason to try anything like that, anyway.

J.K. Rowling: *cackle*

Hagrid: Now let’s see…expositional shot and appreciative description of Nimbus 2000, check…Gringotts sequence, complete with introduction of the Sorcerer’s Plot Point, check…ah, wand time! Here, Harry, go talk with Mr. Ollivander while I get all the rest of your school stuff.

Harry: Um, Hagrid? That guy is sort of scary. In a child molesting, “come wave my wand around” kind of way. Are you sure you don’t want to come with m—

Hagrid: See ya!

Harry: Wonderful.

Ollivander: Well, well, well…hello there, little boy. Want to do some wandwork with me?

Harry: Oh, come on. At least let me get to Hogwarts before I lose my innocence.

Ollivander: FINE, THEN. Here, try this wand.

Wand: *blows shit up*

Ollivander: Try this wand.

Wand: *blows more shit up*

Ollivander: Okay, now I can give you the good wand.

Harry: Why didn’t you just give me that one in the first pl—I LIKE THIS WAND A LOT.

Ollivander: I thought you might. Its brother was the one that exploded your house, murdered both your parents in cold blood, and split your head open.

Harry: …and that made you think I would like this one?

Ollivander: Oh, shut up.

LEAKY CAULDRON

Harry: Hagrid? It’s time for more ‘splainin’.

Hagrid: Ah, Harry, now you see, about that—

Harry: ‘SPLAININ’ NOW.

Hagrid: Fine! Okay, so there was this dude. He was bad, man. Really bad. Badder than the baddest bad man to ever bad his bad way down Bad Boulevard. And his name was…was…vldgmrot.

Harry: Wazzat?

Hagrid: Vdglmmort.

Harry: Say what?

Hagrid: VOLDEMORT VOLDEMORT VOLDEMORT!

Leaky Cauldron People: …

Hagrid: Yeah, so he basically slaughtered your parents—no one knows why—then tried to kill you—no one knows why—and when he tried to do that, he went BOOM—no one knows why. So, does that answer all your questions?

Harry: …

People Who Haven’t Read The Book: Wow, creepy. It’s okay, though, because all of these mysteries will be resolved by the end of this movie, right?

People Who Have Read The Book: *twitching* NO. NO THEY WILL NOT.

LONDON TRAIN STATION

Hagrid: Good luck, Harry! See ya at Hogwarts!

Harry: But my ticket says Platform 9 ¾. Hagrid, help, I have no idea what to do, please don’t leave me completely alo—*sees that Hagrid has run away* fuck.

Mrs. Weasley: There are MUGGLES everywhere, of course, and this is annoying because we are WIZARDS, yes WIZARDS, how fun it is to be WIZARDS…

Harry: You people just became my new best friends. Seriously. For the rest of my life.

Ginny: I’m tiny, adorable, and squeaky just like the rest of the child actors in this movie! Be warned though, Harry, I’ll have matured quite a bit and will be making out with you five movies from now.

Fred and George: God we’re charming and hilarious.

Audience: WE LOVE YOU.

Fred and George: We know.

Percy: I’m pompous!

Everyone Else: OMG no way.

Harry: Um...please…nice lady…can you help me? Pleeeeeeease?

Mrs. Weasley: Oh, of course! Here, it’s Ron’s first time here too!

Ron: Enjoy any and all lines I have in this movie, because all too soon this screenwriter will cut me out of the action and relegate me to comic relief and blundering background noise.

Harry: Oh, c’mon. We’re obviously destined to be best friends forever, so why would that happen to you? Why, I ask you?

Ron: *clutching Harry desperately: I DON’T KNOW. I REALLY DON’T KNOW.

HOGWARTS EXPRESS

People Who Have Read The Books: It’s…it’s beautiful.

People Who Haven’t Read The Books: Meh.

Ron: Scar?

Harry: Yup. Poor?

Ron: Yup.

Silence: *is awkward*

Trolley Lady: Want some sweetums, dears?

Harry: Indeed we do.

Ron: But…but…I’m poor!

Harry: Boy, you rollin’ with me now, and I gots BLING.

Ron: o_0

Chocolate Frogs: *are awesome*

Scabbers: I’m a rat. Just a rat. Seriously, a boring old rat. Juuuuuuust a rat. Nothing but a rat.

Hermione: Hey, anyone seen Neville’s toad?

Audience: SHE IS SO CUTE.

Hermione: You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you? I’m Hermione Granger, and I am smart. *sees Ron* And you’re obviously poor, but I suppose I’ll have your babies in several years, so I’ll tolerate your existence for now.

Audience: SHE IS SO IRRITATING.

HOGWARTS PLATFORM

Hagrid: First years over here! Hurry up, first years, or we won’t have time to make the opening shot of Hogwarts suitably awe-aspiring!

First Years: *go boating*

Hogwarts: *appears*

People Who Have Read The Books: *in hushed tones* Thank you, Santa, for this wonderful, wonderful present.

People Who Have Not Read The Books: So when is the Wicked Witch going to fly over and skywrite “SURRENDER DOROTHY”?

INSIDE HOGWARTS

McGonagall: All you titchy little people wait here. I am going to leave just long enough that, should any of you wish to form lifelong rivalries with each other, I will not be around to interfere.

Malfoy: So, it’s true! Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts!

Audience: This boy is so cute that I will never, ever be able to take him seriously as a jerk.

Malfoy: Be careful of impoverished, inbred peasants like the Weasleys. They’ll contaminate you with their substandard vermin faster than you can say “pureblood.” Luckily, I’m here to teach you how to stomp on small rodents, stab your closest friends in the back, and eventually sell your soul for a pint of hair gel.

Audience: …that was either an amazing acting job or the birth of a genuine psycho.

Harry: Screw you, Malfoy.

Ron: Yay.

Malfoy: Grrrrrr.

Crabbe and Goyle: HEH WE ARE DUMB HEH.

THE SORTING

McGonagall: Now, all you first years will be sorted by…the Sorting Hat!

Sorting Hat: Hey diddle diddle/I’m not a fiddle/nor a flute, nor a bus, nor a tree/I’m a hat, can’t you tell?/And I’m awfully swell/As only a hat can be/I sort you into houses/you tiny little louses/and don’t bitch and whine when I choose/where you’ll spend seven years/floating up to your ears/in enmities, violence, and stews/Ravenclaw’s smart/and Hufflepuffs fart/and they all blame the smell on each other/the Slytherins suck/so I wish you good luck/and hope you’ll be in one of the others/but Gryffindor’s best/out of all of the rest/and that’s where Ms. Rowling’s decided/that Harry and Co./are destined to go/so let’s get on with this now, I’m excited!

McGonagall: Lovely, lovely. Now, I’ll call your names alphabetically, according to the Wizarding alphabet, of course. All right, first letter is G…Granger, Hermione!

Hermione: omg.

Sorting Hat: Whoo, a main character right off the bat! Gryffindor for you, then!

Gryffindors: WOOT!

McGonagall: Next letter is M…Malfoy, Draco!

Malfoy: *smarms up to the Sorting Hat*

Sorting Hat: Already established as an asshole…Slytherin!

Slytherins: Yesssssssssss…

McGonagall: Next letter is B…Bones, Susan!

Susan Bones: Hi, I’m Susan Bones. I’m one of those characters who does actually appear throughout the series, but only to the extent that I provide foils for the main characters in random situations, such as giving them time to chat while the Sorting is going o—

McGonagall: WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY, GIRL, GET UP HERE!

Snape: *glowers*

Audience: Ooh, we LIKE him.

Harry: Ooch, my scar doesn’t like this guy.

McGonagall: W…W…ah, Weasley, Ron!

Ron: I’m so nervous!

Sorting Hat: Oh god, not another of you red-haired people, you breed like bunnies, don’t you? Yes, well, you’re a main character and all, and your families been here for generations, so let’s everyone be really surprised when I yell Gryffindor!

Gryffindors: WOOT!

McGonagall: After W comes P…Potter, Harry!

Students: OMG NO WAY.

Harry: This…is…scary…

Sorting Hat: Really, is there any suspense here? Any at all?

Audience: Not really.

Sorting Hat: Hmmm…Slytherin, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Gryffindor…

Harry: Not Slytherin, not Slytherin…

Sorting Hat: Oh, FINE then. Gryffindor!

Gryffindors: WOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

Harry: Oh thank god.

John Cleese: I’m a ghost! Yay!

Hermione: Hey, didn’t I see you in Monty Pytho—

John Cleese: *flips his head off, exposing the bare flesh of his severed neck*

Hermione: EEEEEURGH.

John Cleese: I thought not.

Harry: Hey, who’s the Goth at the teacher’s table?

Percy: Professor Snape.

Horses: *whinny*

Percy: He’s the Potions master. And rumor has it he’s gone MAD with POWER.

Harry: What?

Percy: What?

Dumbledore: Don’t go to the third floor if you don’t want to explore the realm of PAINFUL VIOLENT DEATH.

Students: …okay then.

NIGHTTIME

Harry: *is staying up late, stroking his owl*

Audience: That sounds like a euphemism for something, but weirdly it isn’t.

HOGWARTS, DAY ONE

Ron and Harry: We’re charmingly inept students!

Hermione: You two sicken me.

McGonagall: *is witty*

Ron: *is adoring*

POTIONS

Snape: Everyone, sit down and shut up. I am going to teach you how not to be sniveling little lumps of uselessness.

Audience: YAY FOR ALAN RICKMAN!

Harry: You hate me, don’t you?

Snape: Yes, indeed I do.

Audience: GO ALAN RICKMAN!

Harry: But I’m so teeny and adorable! What did I do wrong?

Snape: You look exactly like your fuckface of a father, who I am happy is dead as a doornail.

Audience: RAH, RAH, ALAN RICKMAN!

Harry: Hey! Whose side are you on, anyway?

Audience: ALAN RICKMAN’S!

Snape: I do not think, in all honesty, that you can blame them.

Harry: *resignedly* No. No, I can’t.

QUIDDITCH

Madam Hooch: If you are awesome, your broom will obey you. If not, it will humiliate you. Have at it!

Students: UP!

Brooms: *beat them over the head*

Students: OW!

Harry: UP!

Broom: *complies*

Harry: Yeeeeees.

Neville: *is humiliated*

Madam Hooch: All you troublesome eleven year olds wait here alone! I’m following Minerva McGonagall’s example and trusting that you won’t learn to hate each other while I’m gone!

Malfoy: Hey, I think I’ll steal Neville Fatbottom’s RemembrPoint and hide it!

Harry: Give it back, bitch!

Malfoy: Queen, please. *glides off in a way that is both awesome and somewhat emasculating*

Harry: Whee! I’m a natural flier!

Audience: Of course he is.

Malfoy: *chucks Remembrall toward the forest*

Harry: *catches the Remembrall, narrowly avoiding smashing into the wall of the castle*

Audience: Buh—wah—oh, never mind, it’s probably a magic teleporting castle or something.

Harry: *descends triumphantly to the ground where he is mobbed by his admiring peers as the music swells*

The Moment: *is one of the most enjoyable moments in the entire Harry Potter film series*

McGonagall: Get your scrawny little arse over here, Potter.

Harry: *wibble*

McGonagall: *leads Harry to Quirrell’s class* May I have Wood for a moment?

Quirrell: M-m-m-m-m-minerva, I thought w-w-w-w-w-w-we agreed to be d-d-d-discreet about this r-r-r-r-r-r-relationship.

McGonagall: The PERSON, you idiot.

Quirrell: Oh. Well y-y-y-y-y-y-yes then.

Quirrell’s Iguana: *stink-eye*

Harry: That is one mean iguana.

Wood: Eh, Prrofessor, whot’s thess?

Audience: *swoons*

McGonagall: This boy has mad skizzles, Wizzles. Put him on the teamizzle as a Seekizzle.

Wood: Wha?

McGonagall: I be standin in ur school, givin u a Seekr.

Wood: AH.

COURTYARD

Harry: This is so wonderful and unexpected! I can’t imagine how it all happened!

Hermione: Hereditary Quidditch moves, bitch.

Ron: Whoa, your dad was a Seeker too! If he hadn’t been brutally murdered, he’d be so proud of you!

Harry: …*tear*

HOGWARTS

Staircase: *decides to fuck with three adorable eleven-year-olds*

Harry: Where are we?

Hermione: Third floor corridor, moron.

Ron: Oh hell no.

Mrs. Norris: Mew.

Kids: AAAAAAAH! RUN AWAY! *flee*

Mrs. Norris: *threateningly* Mew.

Kids: *find a door and hide*

Harry: That was close.

Ron: Yeah, we got lucky.

Hermione: …

Harry: Aren’t you going to insult us for our meager intelligence and correct our speech?

Hermione: …

Ron: What’s wrong with her?

Hermione: Doggy…big…three…doggy…

Fluffy: Arf. (translation: Hello, new friends!)

Kids: AAAAAAAAH! RUN AWAY AGAIN! *head for the hills*

Fluffy: Woof woof! (translation: Come back! If let alone, I will be left with nothing to do but chase my tail! I shall go MAD! MAD, I TELL YOU!)

DORMITORIES

Ron: That dog is not nice. I do not want to go back there. Ever.

Harry: God, I know. Random-ass devil dog, lurking in a school…what are they thinking?

Hermione: Don’t you use your eyes? The dog was standing on a trapdoor! It’s guarding something!

Harry: You are actually claiming that you managed not only to look away from those three vicious Rottweiler heads that were slavering with the desire to chomp us all into tiny bits, but also to absorb information about what it was standing on?

Hermione: Ugh. Boys. Good night.

Ron: She’s sexy when she’s all huffy and superior…I mean, god, what a bitchy little chick right there.

QUIDDITCH

Wood: Quaffle, Chasers, Bludgers, Beaters, Keepers, etc. Basically, none of it matters because whoever catches the Snitch wins the game. Since you’re the person who’ll be catching the Snitch, Harry…well, what I guess I’m trying to say is, it’s all about you, Harry Potter.

Harry: I have a curious feeling that this will be a recurring theme throughout my life.

CHARMS

Flitwick: Swish and flick! Swish and flick! Swish and flick! Swish and fl—

Students: GOT IT, THANKS.

Ron: Wingardium Leviosa!

Hermione: You utter plebeian, it’s Wingardium Levioooosa, not Leviosaaaaa or Leviiiiiiiosa or any number of ridiculous versions you would surely have attempted.

Ron: I hate you so very, very much.

Hermione: Talk to the feather.

Seamus: *blows the feather up*

Harry: …how did you even do that?

Seamus: Blowing shit up is going to be my shtick for the entirety of these movies, isn’t it?

AFTER CHARMS

Ron: Hermione is annoying and ugly and nobody likes her and now I shall mock her. Openly. Publicly. Without restraint.

Hermione: *tear*

Ron: Isn’t it ironic that I’ll spend the next six books trying to beat people up because they say pretty much everything I’m saying right now?

Harry: Yeah, well, I heard you guys end up married and doing the sex and all, so it’s probably okay.

Ron: Really? Cool! ...Hey, Harry, what’s “the sex”?

Harry: I dunno. Some kind of folk dance, perhaps?

HALLOWEEN

Neville: Hermione is crying in the bathroom because you, Ron, are a dickwad.

Ron: *cringe*

Quirrell: THAR B TROLL IN TEH DUNGEON!!!!11!1!1!!

Everyone Else: …

Quirrell: OH NOES!

Students: PANIIIIIIIIC!

Dumbledore: Simon says SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Students: …

Dumbledore: Kids, into bed. Teachers, follow me. Filch, scrape Professor Quirrell off the ground, that’s a good chap.

Harry: Ron? Remember when you were a dickwad?

Ron: Yeah?

Harry: Well, your dickwaddery may spontaneously result in the violent, horrific death of Hermione Granger.

Ron: In other words?

Harry: Let’s try to prevent that.

Troll: The tears of prepubescent girls smell delicious! INTO THE BATHROOM!

Hermione: *sniffle*

Troll: Hello, tasty human.

Hermione: …this is not good.

Troll: *stallSMASH*

Harry: Run, Hermione!

Hermione: In case you haven’t noticed, Harry, I am too busy being buried in debris to run! Jeez!

Harry: *facepalm*

Troll: What, there are more of them? They’re coming out of the fucking woodwork!

Harry: *hitches a ride on the Troll Noggin Express*

Ron: Oh man, if only the movie people would allow me to perform one spell successfully instead of turning all my attempts into misguided comic relief, I could potentially save the day!

Harry and Hermione: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST LET THE BOY HAVE HIS MOMENT!

Movie People: But…but…nooooooo…

Harry: I’M ABOUT TO DIE, YOU ASSHOLES! I’M THE FRAKKING HERO! IF I DIE, THERE WILL BE NO MORE MOVIES AND NO MORE OPENING DAY GROSSES!

Movie People: Fine.

Ron: Wingardium Leviosa!

Club: *trollSMASH*

Troll: *is out for the count*

Obligatory Booger Joke: *is made*

Teachers: *rush in*

McGonagall: EXPLAIN YOURSELVES.

Harry: Um…well…uh…ALIENS.

Ron: Er…ah…you see…ALIENS.

McGonagall: O RLY?

Hermione: They tried to save me, because I was such a huge know-it-all that I thought I could take the troll out myself.

McGonagall: Hermione Granger, you absolute moron. Five points from Gryffindor!

Harry and Ron: Boooooo!

McGonagall: And for you two…five points to Gryffindor each!

Harry and Ron: Yaaaaaay!

Snape’s Leg: *is bloody*

Harry: *stares*

Snape: Now, now, Potter, I know I’m Alan Rickman and all—

Audience: WOOT ALAN RICKMAN!

Snape: —but staring like that is both creepy and against the rules. Fifty points from Gryffindor.

Teachers: *leave*

Hermione: Um…thanks for saving my life, guys.

Harry: Uh, sure, no problem.

Ron: Yeah, it was nothing…

Kids: *blush and stare at the ground*

Harry: Wanna be best friends for life?

Hermione: Oh, what the hell, why not.

Ron: Count me in!

The Most Famous Literary Trio of The 21^st Century: *is born*

BREAKFAST

Hermione: Don’t worry, Harry! You’ll be great at Quidditch! Which is a sport played on brooms!

Ron: Yeah, you’ll do great…despite that fact that you…don’t…have…a broom?

Harry: Eh. Dues Ex McGonachina has never failed me yet.

Long, Broomstick Shaped Package: *arrives*

Harry: Whatever could it be?

Nimbus 2000: *is shiny*

Kids: Oooooooh.

QUIDDITCH

The Game: *makes use of some rather clumsy CGI and motion shots, but overall is sort of epic*

Students: *are all adorable in their little scarves and hats and the like*

Harry’s Broom: *goes apeshit*

Harry: Oh dear.

Hermione: Oh sweet holy Jesus, Snape is jinxing Harry’s broom!

Ron: DO SOMETHING, WOMAN!

Hermione: *fulfills every pyromaniac’s dream of setting their mortal enemies on fire*

Snape: Whoa, I feel hot…omg, FIRE DOWN BELOW!

McGonagall: Please, Professor Snape, there are children listening!

Snape: NO, SERIOUSLY, FIRE!

Quirrell: *is surreptitiously knocked over by the ensuing commotion*

Harry’s Broom: *is tamed*

Harry: *swallows the Snitch*

Gryffindors: Woohoo!

Slytherins: Boooooo!

People Who Have Read The Book: Yeah, Harry, don’t say goodbye to that Snitch so quick, it’ll be coming back for you.

People Who Have Not Read The Books: Can we please make the obligatory spit-or-swallow jokes here? Please?

Dying In America

Why do I feel this way?

Recently, it's seemed to me that half the world is on happy pills. Half the world is on antidepressants because without them, they are oh so sad and unstable. Oh golly, no one should have to deal with unhappiness; on to the pills!

Okay, that sounds bitchy as hell, I know. People I know and love are on antidepressants: my father, my best friend, and various sundry friends and adults in my life. I know that these people take pills because they make them feel better. They aren't idiots, and I'm not stereotyping antidepressant-takers as mentally deficient.

But just as litigation is on a serious rise in this country, so is the average hypochondriac. Physical illness alone is bad enough: every sniffle or cough is the swine flu, and every ache or twinge is multiple sclerosis. My aunt had breast cancer, and it was HORRIBLE. I have no sympathy for people who take a bottle of antibiotics for a head cold, which, by the way, is a fucking virus. And thus, I have limited patience for those who complain about taking their happy pills when I have some of the world's worst mood swings and depression that makes me want to put a fucking pistol to my head sometimes, and I have never taken an antidepressant in my life.

Again, I know how elitist and petty I sound. But seriously, in a country where we're all pretty self-obsessed, this fake-depression thing is out of control. IT'S CALLED A BAD MOOD, PEOPLE. IT'S NOT DEPRESSION IF YOU'RE JUST PISSED OFF BECAUSE YOU'RE BORED. I'm not claiming to have clinical depression, or to have any authority on how other people feel when I don't know a damn thing about them; but I will swear of a stack of anything you want that the way I feel sometimes is irrational, completely unmerited, and so awful that lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling is the only thing I can do without making myself feel worse. Oh, that and blast "What You Own".

Tomorrow is my birthday. My family places a lot of importance on birthdays, mostly because of my dad. When I was growing up, birthdays were a huge deal. Now, I feel like the entire world is a fucking letdown. And it's NOT, because I went to Rocky Horror last night with a bunch of awesome people and there was a lovely little birthday celebration beforehand for Miranda, Kate, and me. I'm taking to a Red Sox game this week. I might even plan something else. All this great stuff has and is happening, and all I want to do is lie down and sleep. Except I can't sleep, so I want to lie down and stare at the ceiling.

What I feel like right now? I feel like my mom and dad aren't really very interested in me, and I'm going to ruin my own fucking life because I CAN'T FUCKING FORCE MYSELF TO DO MY SUMMER HOMEWORK, and I don't want to go to work because everything there is just a reminder of how everyone else prefers everyone else to me, and how I'm so annoying and weird and what have you that my friends there barely tolerate me and love each other so much more than me and I'll never be good enough, and I feel so fucking pathetic for thinking this way and feeling this way that it all just gets worse, and everyone else is gone and I'm a horrible friend to the wonderful people that I don't appreciate, and I'm lazy and everyone else is too good for me, and the rest of the world is ashamed of me and I'm ashamed of me and I will go through the rest of my life feeling like I've disappointed everyone and I should fucking be ashamed of myself and they have every right to do ashamed of me as well, and I'm such a whiny self-centered bitch because I can't spare a fucking thought outside of my own stupid problems and I seek attention and everyone hates that about me, and no one wants to listen to me be a fucking idiot, so I will shit the fuck up.

I bet you didn't actually want to know, did you.

Can this all be done? Please? Can all of this be fucking done? PLEASE? Please please please please please please. Let this all be done.