Dream a Little Dream Of Me

Last night I dreamt of my ex-interests of the past. Bless my sub-counscious for making them all far more attractive than both they and I deserve credit for, but it was an interesting trip down memory lane. I always find the most disappointing thing about dreams is that they don't always end, you know? I have so many cliff hanger dreams kicking about. I just want to know how they end.

Though all the fellows of my dream shall remain nameless ( my most recent ex not actually making an appearance, for I thankfully woke up), it was certainly a start to look at the differences between those fellows I found attractive over the years. I know I have always been of the school of thought that since I am no 10, I cannot wish for more than...Oh, say a 6 to like me. My standards in physical attraction are quite low because of that self-esteem thing I have going, so it makes it all the more dreadful to look at the homely fellows of years past. I think, after that dream, my standards shifted. Seriously. Homely, homely fellows, some of them. All of them. It's just sad.

However, as I've mentioned before, I do have the issue of tearing boys apart within a week of actually dating them. They are no longer attractive, no longer intelligent, they are just annoying pricks with dicks (or vice versa, if you please). I dislike being around them and having to do things with them. I'm told I will eventually find someone I don't mind being around, that I can hang out with, but forgive me if I am pessimistic. I don't care that I haven't been at this dating thing for long, I'm not one to 'keep on truckin'. Fuck that. When everyone else is still truckin', I'm resting on the curb, sick and tired of that shit.

I've prematurely reached my dating climax. No one is satisfied, this way.

Today I Met The Boy I'm Gonna Marry

I want to meet Jimmy Stewart. The usual complications of one of the two parties meeting being dead arises, of course, but all that exhuming aside, I want to meet him. He was such a gentlemen, those who worked with him say, and I think he would have been a complete doll. I want to marry a man like Jimmy Stewart.

Or perhaps like Cary Grant. So classy, debonair, handsome; what else could a girl want? A talented actor, and his delivery? Sublime. His real named was Archibald. Would I have to call him that, or could I stick with Cary, or Mr.Grant, if we were feeling kinky? Who cares. The man was a hunk with a voice that cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, much like the sexual tension he caused in every scene he was in with any leading lady (and one scene he was in with Jimmy Stewart).

Oh, wait. Danny Kaye. That's who I want my husband to be like. Funny, witty, charming and talented in the musical and dance areas. How could one not want to tap that? Again, with the dead thing, it's illegal and all, and not really respectful, but I'm just saying. That man always makes me smile in all his films, he has such a lovely voice and sweet expressions, one cannot help but melt (like butter when a hot knife is put in it. See? See how I connected those two? Yeah. Pretty awesome.) when he parades across one's screen. Oh, girlish sighs and squees abound, kiddies.

Oh, oh, what about Hugh Laurie? Uh, and he's still alive! Married with children, but it beats Dead by a long shot. His writing makes me smile and laugh out loud (much to the dismay of the woman sitting next to me on the plane home) and his mannerisms are beyond adorable. He is not only comedically talented but can do Drama and goodness, is the man modest. I gush. I gush like mad. He is string-beaned love, and certainly has gained the title of one of my favourite actors over the many years of my crushing over Prince George in Black Adder. I think it was his giant trousers.

I think I'm romantically doomed. Thanks to my 'obsession' (I put quotes to try and ease the minds of innocent viewers at home. 'Oh, she put quotes, so she cannot possibly be obsessed, really, right?' Aha.) with leading men, I don't know how I'll find a guy who lives up to my ideal. It doesn't help that the leading men I fancy have such contradicting traits, either, I'm sure. It's weird.

An example: When watching the movie 'Man of the Year' with an ex (who wasn't past tense in the relationship department at that moment), I thought to myself that Robin Williams was far closer to what I want than the fellow trying to cop a feel during the film. And it's not the characters of these actors, luckily, that I fall for, but what they portray themselves like in interviews and bios and the like. Sigh.

However. I know that they are just regular men with talents in the acting genre, and that other regular men like that exist, but...Gosh darned if I don't want those ones rather than second best. But, who knows? I might tear them apart and find all their faults in a week or less, too, if I were to date them. Maybe it's me who has a problem.

Then again, maybe I'm fucking perfect.

All for One and One For All

I think being a muskateer would have been an awesome occupation in 17th century France. It would beat being a starving peasant, for starters, and you'd get an awesome outfit. Also, there would be the benefit of getting taught wicked swordsplay and fighting skills, as well as honour, the art of being noble ( in blood and in practice ) and all the action you could shake a stick at.

I would hope, if I were a muskateer, Jeremy Irons would portray me in a feature film. He plays a lovely muskateer, I must say. Though, my favourite muskateer would have to be D'Artagnan, Jeremy's came in a close second. If only he wasn't a priest, he would most likely come in first, but all that God buisness was a bit of a turn-off. Blasphemous, I know, but-well, a girl can't help what blows her skirt up, now can she?

I've always been rather interested in the noble and heroic figures of each century, and not only because of the romantic side of it all ( e.g. A knight in shining armour, or Richard Gere) . Really, the idea of being a damsel in distress disgusts me, so it was never about that, I find. I never understood those stories. Talk about opposites attracting. How could a man who lives by the blade and loves adventure and danger want to marry a woman who faints at the sight of a nasty look? Puh-lease. Yeah, I am so strongly against it, I write out catty retorts.

I love the idea of Knights. That would explain my major, I suppose. I find the idea of a society so puffed up in it's own time to try and become like the words written about it so damned intriguing. Knights began as hired men, merely workers, Knight being a job description and not a title. Then, over a mere century, they became heroes of stories across the land, and being a Knight went hand in hand with being a noble. Insane. Like. Whoa.

I've never read the Muskateer novels (known as the D'Artagnan romances), but I think I might do that over the summer. I've seen two of the films (The Three Muskateers and The Man in the Iron Mask). I have plenty of books to read already, but what's another classic or two (or three, really...) .

Anyway, I'm tired, my wrist hurts, and I'm thirsty, so I think I'll call it a night. In a bit.

What's Up, Houston, What's Up?

I don't get women.

Today I watched the film 'Friends with Money' and that fact became more and more obvious as the film went on. Every action these female characters took baffled me; every fit, every smile, every thing. I just don't get them. Perhaps it is because I am not married, or have ever been in a serious relationship, which seems to be some key to knowing what the hell is wrong with women.

Mind, I don't get men, either, but I am closer to cracking that code than the puzzle that is femininity. They (as in men) seem to have it a bit easier at times in the social department. I'm sure this is not the case all the time, and I'm hardly condemning the average penis card-holders to the grey area of no drama (for they are saving it for their mamas), and I am not confused by all women, by all means, but in general, I find myself more at ease with males. Lucky I'm heterosexual (or a Het), or I would have an even worse time dating.

I think I'm socially inept, really. I have times of utter indifference to socializing, and would rather sit around watching movies, and others I want to go out and wow the world with my wicked self (Cue giggling. See: Below).

You know what? Screw it. I have House to watch.

The Beginning Of A Beautiful E-Relationship

When I grow up, I want to be a brillant prose writer; pretending to know what I'm writing about though I've never lived it, pretending to know what my characters are thinking though they do not exist, thus do not think (see: I Think Therefore I Am), and pretending to know I am the best at what I do and can write worth two shits of a dime-store clerk. I want to introduce myself as 'a writer' and not feel like puking and blushing simultaneously as I excuse myself from the conversation. I want to wow the world with my wit, and stop giggling when I accidently use alteration (though that day will most likely never come, and I am secretly happy about that).

After that, I want to be a junkie. Not on drugs, of course, I'm too classy for that and far too squeamish; No, I want to be a junkie on something else, something that agrees with me. Pornography, perhaps. I want to wear long sweatshirts and tight-eighties jeans and get away with not brushing my hair, though it would always be clean. I want to have runny mascara and mutter to myself about 'life' and 'art' and have those rants sound like they do need air quotes when I spoke of them. I want to sleep on a mattress on the floor in the middle of a room with no furniture and think it chic. I want to write long rambling letters to friends about my life in the furniture-less room with my messy hair and my 'art', and making wonderful observations about the world around me, so that when envelopes with my writing on them arrived in the post, people would smile.

Then I want to make people smile. I love to laugh, and I want to share that. I like the idea of being a stand-up comic or a talk-show host, but have no idea where to start. I just want to laugh and giggle and snicker with the actors I know and love. I think Jeff Goldblum would be an amazing verbal sparing partner.

I'd like to be in a band.

I want to act. I want to be in a film that people talk about for good reasons and I want to go to the Oscars and take along a friend who would love the night as much as I would. I want to put on a different accent. I like the idea of having a professional do my eye-makeup. I would want to help pick out the soundtrack, to better fit my character. E! would get my greatest 'red carpet' smile as I told them about my life on the matress and how much I owed to Baby. I like the idea of being cryptic with the media. I'd hug big stars as if we knew each other for years, though I only made one big film and they didn't even know my real name (I would drop my last name and find another one, of course). I would start with Hugh Laurie; he has nice arms.

Then I would become a washed-up hack. I want a game-show to host, or perhaps a series of novels only die-hard fans would read, and even then it would only be to see if I had truly lost it. And I would. Loose it, that is. My hair would be messy again, and my jeans would be traded in for pajama bottoms with Scooby-Doo on them, and a baggy t-shirt that said 'NYPD', though I never was a cop or played one on T.V.. I would wear huge sunglasses and a hat when I went shopping, though no one would recognize me anyway, and if they did, they would think me someone I wasn't, and ask for an autograph (Which I would give, so starved for the stardom I gave up). I would miss my characters from my prose of yesterday. I would begin talking to them. In Public.

My E! True Hollywood story would have many commerical breaks, advertising Dove shampoos and Kellog's Special K cereal.

At my funeral, I want 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' to be played. Like in 'The Big Chill'. Perhaps William Hurt will attend my services, too. I want big gawdy flower arrangements with lilies in them, but only because of my name. No other meaning. I don't even like them that much. I want someone to cry for me, but they have to be wearing mascara that is not water proof to get the full effect. I want a woman in a wide-rimmed hat and Jackie-O sunglasses to weep at my grave, dabbing her handkerchief at her eyes with her white kid-gloved hands trembling. I want to have made a difference. I don't want any of my true friends to cry, just the woman in the mascara and the lady with the wide-rimmed hat. They would be paid in full afterwards.

I like the idea of all this.
But I won't practice what I preach.