Up My Own Ass

I haven’t read it.  I haven’t seen it.

But yet, I find myself wrought with desire to talk about it… and not in a good way.  Generally, I sort of try to ignore things like this unless they interest me in a way that doesn’t make me want to inflict bodily harm.  Sadly for me, I work with a bunch of ladies who friggin’ love everything Bella and Edward.  Because I need the job, I don’t get involved with the discussion… so I just come here after a long work day and kick THIS dog, instead.

I think my contempt starts at the same place as Stephenie Meyer’s sappy story about some dream she had about two young lovers, one of whom happens to be a chaste, vegetarian vampire… or whatever.  She was so busy like all moms are – taking the kids back and forth to shopping practice – that she was afraid she would lose her memory of the dream, so she scribbled it all down between playdates and manicures and, gosh, within SIX MONTHS she had a multi-gazillion dollar book deal with a national publishing house.

Fuck you.

Why her?  Where is my dream that nets me an entire life savings?  Seriously, I would be much  more interested in this “dream” if the writer in question had been scribbling her notes in between job interviews and WIC appointments.  If I tried to write about the last dream I remember having, it would involve a huge, abandoned building, my friend Margaret, and a blue unicorn with a peppermint horn… and this isn’t one of those “fill in the blanks” situations, either… that’s seriously all I remember.

I am just that deeply embittered that I can’t stand seeing already successful people succeed even more.  Oh, and vampires don’t fucking sparkle, either.  They disintegrate.  They turn to stone.  They don’t look like Britney Spears’ backup dancers.  That’s just stupid and infuriating.  Oh, I know, I think I’ll write a book about a succubus who just likes to cuddle and wonders why nobody will return her unrequited love (I’m thinking of either Kate Hudson or Anne Hathaway as the lead…).

As a published author, I would think that I would be feeling more of that “hometown girl does good” vibe that everyone in the state is feeling about Ms. Meyer… but I’m not… and I won’t, at least not until I get an email from her saying how much she loved MY book.

This particular brand of contempt reared its ugly head a few years back when that GOD AWFUL movie, The Perfect Man, came out starring Hilary Duff and Heather Locklear.  The screenplay was written by a local gal who based the story about this fun thing her and her “friend” (who has forever remained nameless) used to do where they would steal credit cards and buy gifts for her mom and pretend they were from a BOY… isn’t that cute?  So, eventually mom believed that she had this ADMIRER… you see how cute this is?

Last I heard, “friend” got convicted of some credit card fraud and “local gal” got a movie deal.  I would really like to be at the reunion when those two start catching up.

So, “local gal” worked at AOL, and was able to shop her story around because of her “friendship” that she developed with Carrie Fisher… Carrie Fisher told her to “write a treatment” and it all went from there.  That’s great for her, but I ALSO worked at AOL and I am asking the obvious question… how the HELL did she know where to find Carrie Fisher since looking up the screen names of celebrities was an “instant termination” offense?  Oh, because since she already had no qualms about STEALING, then it wasn’t much of a stretch to hack into private personal information to further her own career… I see how that works, now.

Yeah, that’s a great story.  It’s just like that part in Dirty Dancing when Baby saw the sign that said “No Guests Beyond This Point” and went anyway.  I suppose I would have turned back and the movie would have ended right there… and it would have still been “local gal” carrying Patrick Swayze’s watermelons to the party.

It all still pisses me off, though.  If I had done that, I would have gotten fired… that would be the end of my screenplay… and then I would have been writing last night’s dream between job interviews and WIC appointments.

I think I’ll write a screenplay based on my incurable case of sour grapes… I’m thinking of calling it Syphilitic Whores… how does that sound?