(no subject)
My responses to Transformers, which was like porn for nerds:
Dear Mr. Bay,
What sort of crack are you smoking? I mean, yes, you made an entirely entertaining and awesome film, and I can even forgive you the totally forgettable, stupid dialog and irritating characters, simply because if the film had been any more awesome ushers would've had to hand out cigarettes at the exit and ask if it was good for us too, and that would just be awkward. So, yes, I concede the point that you made an excellent film, moving on, did you just totally miss the memo where Megatron is supposed to be purple?
Seriously, are you maybe retarded or something? Everyone knows this. Stop raping my fondest memories.
Try harder next time, please.
Sincerely,
Me
Dear David Kaye,
I love you. Not in a creepy stalker way (which it could be with a little encouragement, but totally isn't), but there is lots of love there, from Beast Wars and Inu Yasha and so, so much from Gundam Wing. Beast Wars, in fact, probably did a lot to shape my brain in those oh-so-formative years, leading to my repressed desire to be a giant robot slash giant shiny animal of some sort when I grow up. I still have hope. At any rate, while watching the new Transformers movie I kept mentally superimposing your voice over all of Megatron's lines. I, and any other true fans, know where the real voice of Megatron is. I'll not debate Mr. Weaving's talents, but you would have made that movie for me.
Devotedly yours,
Me (not-a-stalker)
Dear Miss Mikaela,
I wish you had gotten squashed early on in the film.
No love,
Me
Stuff has happened involving the old folks and my dad really is an asshole, especially to his parents. I figured out that I still have the capacity to like him, but only because I consider his assholeishness to be a mental deficiency, like a birth defect or some such, and thus he's someone to be pitied or something.
It's five in the morning according to the clock, and I really need to sleep.
But hey, guess what wikipedia just told me? 'Antidepressants have been shown to be effective in treating both Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and trichotillomania.' Prozac is looking better and better every goddamn day.
And then I wrote some stuff.
This happened at least once a week, usually.
"Could you just try to act like an adult at least once, Ray?"
"You are stifling my creative spirit!"
Stella rolled her eyes and slammed out of the apartment. Ray stared at the door for a few vacant moments and then turned and started to rhythmically smash his head against the wall. A framed painting jostled off its hook and fell to the floor.
-----
"Perhaps I, erm, should go."
"No, no, no," Ray gestured expansively and swung his feet up onto an ottoman. "Stay."
"Your wife-"
"Stella asked me for a divorce four years ago. She's got nothing to do with it." Ray took a sip of his beer and stared dejectedly at the television.
"Erm, well." Fraser sat on the very edge of his chair and worried the brim of his stetson in his hands.
Neither spoke, and the sounds of hockey announcers were only occasionally overwhelmed by the sounds of stella smashing something in another room.
"Except," Ray said suddenly during the next commercial break, "obviously she has a lot to do with it, since she's not gone."
The room shook worryingly as something thudded against the wall.
-----
"Awe, no, that one was a gift!"
"An ugly gift," stella replied from where she sat, curled up on one of the sofa.
"I swear I changed the locks. How do you keep getting in here?"
-----
"You followed me to Canada for this?" He didn't even wait for her to respond. "You know what? Just, no. I am going to go over there and I am going to draw a goddamn landscape and when I come back you will not be here." He gestured roughly out the window and stomped off to find some warm clothes.
Stella sat down at the kitchen table and started spreading out suspiciously legal-looking documents. Fraser puttered around and put the water on for tea.
-----
Dear Mr. Bay,
What sort of crack are you smoking? I mean, yes, you made an entirely entertaining and awesome film, and I can even forgive you the totally forgettable, stupid dialog and irritating characters, simply because if the film had been any more awesome ushers would've had to hand out cigarettes at the exit and ask if it was good for us too, and that would just be awkward. So, yes, I concede the point that you made an excellent film, moving on, did you just totally miss the memo where Megatron is supposed to be purple?
Seriously, are you maybe retarded or something? Everyone knows this. Stop raping my fondest memories.
Try harder next time, please.
Sincerely,
Me
Dear David Kaye,
I love you. Not in a creepy stalker way (which it could be with a little encouragement, but totally isn't), but there is lots of love there, from Beast Wars and Inu Yasha and so, so much from Gundam Wing. Beast Wars, in fact, probably did a lot to shape my brain in those oh-so-formative years, leading to my repressed desire to be a giant robot slash giant shiny animal of some sort when I grow up. I still have hope. At any rate, while watching the new Transformers movie I kept mentally superimposing your voice over all of Megatron's lines. I, and any other true fans, know where the real voice of Megatron is. I'll not debate Mr. Weaving's talents, but you would have made that movie for me.
Devotedly yours,
Me (not-a-stalker)
Dear Miss Mikaela,
I wish you had gotten squashed early on in the film.
No love,
Me
Stuff has happened involving the old folks and my dad really is an asshole, especially to his parents. I figured out that I still have the capacity to like him, but only because I consider his assholeishness to be a mental deficiency, like a birth defect or some such, and thus he's someone to be pitied or something.
It's five in the morning according to the clock, and I really need to sleep.
But hey, guess what wikipedia just told me? 'Antidepressants have been shown to be effective in treating both Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and trichotillomania.' Prozac is looking better and better every goddamn day.
And then I wrote some stuff.
This happened at least once a week, usually.
"Could you just try to act like an adult at least once, Ray?"
"You are stifling my creative spirit!"
Stella rolled her eyes and slammed out of the apartment. Ray stared at the door for a few vacant moments and then turned and started to rhythmically smash his head against the wall. A framed painting jostled off its hook and fell to the floor.
-----
"Perhaps I, erm, should go."
"No, no, no," Ray gestured expansively and swung his feet up onto an ottoman. "Stay."
"Your wife-"
"Stella asked me for a divorce four years ago. She's got nothing to do with it." Ray took a sip of his beer and stared dejectedly at the television.
"Erm, well." Fraser sat on the very edge of his chair and worried the brim of his stetson in his hands.
Neither spoke, and the sounds of hockey announcers were only occasionally overwhelmed by the sounds of stella smashing something in another room.
"Except," Ray said suddenly during the next commercial break, "obviously she has a lot to do with it, since she's not gone."
The room shook worryingly as something thudded against the wall.
-----
"Awe, no, that one was a gift!"
"An ugly gift," stella replied from where she sat, curled up on one of the sofa.
"I swear I changed the locks. How do you keep getting in here?"
-----
"You followed me to Canada for this?" He didn't even wait for her to respond. "You know what? Just, no. I am going to go over there and I am going to draw a goddamn landscape and when I come back you will not be here." He gestured roughly out the window and stomped off to find some warm clothes.
Stella sat down at the kitchen table and started spreading out suspiciously legal-looking documents. Fraser puttered around and put the water on for tea.
-----