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Refuge for the rational.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Dear Freaky Vampire Boy, 

The thing is, I tried really hard to be nice to you. And there are good reasons for that—I didn’t giggle behind your back because I don’t think it’s wrong that you should find me attractive. I also hate when people do that—I’ve had it done to me—it isn’t a crime to desire involvement with someone.

The problem is that you are really creepy. You crossed the line a long time ago, and I’m not sure that it would even be visible if you turned around and looked for it. Because you clearly don’t know that you’ve crossed it, and you clearly can’t read body language, and you clearly don’t get that my valiant efforts at not hurting your feelings are being thwarted by your persistent and masochistic insistence that we are somehow fated to be together.

The first time you approached me, I thought you were going to ask me to go to a movie with you. I think that would be the most fitting approach for a fellow film student. I wasn’t really sure what the approach would entail so I decided to prevent it altogether. I tried to do you a favour, to save you the rejection. I made a phone call—surely you remember? “I just have to make a quick phone call before break is over.” And that call went to the person I’m involved with—perhaps it was too subtle?

You must have rationalised it, twisted it until the person on the other end became my sister, because you persisted. You told me you woke up one day and just decided to start a film company. And then you told me you believed in signs. Eeek.

You told me I looked like some B-movie actress, except “hit with the sex-kitten stick”. You told me that she had been your inspiration in creating the one and only character that you have yet to cast in your film. I asked you what the genre of the film was and you told me it was a vampire love story (eeek), and I almost asked if it was a comedy, until I saw that you were serious. Then you told me my character was the queen of the vampires and I nearly shot snot out of my nose.

The next time you approached me, everything I had said in class was recited back to me, and had been interpreted as some kind of sign. A lot of people like Ewen MacGregor (he’s kind of, like, famous you know), it doesn’t mean you can use his shitty new movie as an excuse to take me on a date. And considering my reaction to your film idea, it shouldn’t have shocked you when I responded to your second request with a speech about artistic ethics. I told you that I didn’t consider myself ready to pursue an acting career at the moment and that I didn’t ever want to be cast for appearances because that would stunt my progress in attaining a genuine artistic practice. I told you I despised bad art, that formulaic art was a waste of time, that Wilde and I were in utter disagreement, but that I loved him just the same. I thought this was a fairly plain negative answer. Your confusion surrounding this issue should have acted as somewhat of a guiding light to the fact that we aren’t meant to be together.

It’s so kind of you to share your intimate knowledge of the universe with me. I, clearly, have been wasting my entire life up until this moment and should gladly discard my life, passions, interests, intellect, values and pursuits to fulfil the personality that you’ve assigned me. You made it quite clear that my boyfriend was not the one I was meant to be with when he came to visit me. You made a special effort to glare at him and stare at my ass that day.

Last week you made an extra-special effort to try to get closer to me by cornering one of the people I sit with in class. He was very impressed. I’m sure he didn’t mind being late for class, the subject of ME being so important and all.

Today, I was just annoyed. I didn’t make any effort to be polite. You asked me for my email address and I asked you why. I think it’s a fair question. We haven’t exactly engaged in any riveting conversation or interesting film analysis. You can’t possibly think I’m interested in you sexually. I’ve expressed my disinterest in appearing as the queen of the vampires in your lame movie. So why? Because you have some questions. Oh? Yeah, about the role in the film.
That’s what my body said, I know because M witnessed it. I said nothing—I couldn’t get out a complete sentence. I started to say something like “I can’t believe you’re still on about this”, but I was so unbelievably dumbfounded that you could be so utterly stupid that I just walked away.

I tried really hard to be polite, but the funny thing is, the more you pursue this, the more repugnant you become. The more I want to say the awful, rude, cold-hearted things.

I know what you’re thinking. That I’m going to regret this when you become a famous director. That I’m going to dream about what my horrible life could have been like if only I’d been capable of seeing your genius. Here’s a hint: real directors get their education before attempting to write and direct a film. Whether in school or elsewhere, it’s kind of a vital part of not making a hack film.

Do you think that if you corner me I’m going to give in to you? How are you going to wow me? Do you have a few Shakespearean sonnets saved up? Are you hoping that I haven’t noticed that you wear the same horrible outfit every day—black Adidas track pants and an oversized button-down shirt with a blue and red dragon on it? Do you think AXE body spray really makes women go mad with desire?

I’m quite done with being nice to you. It obviously isn’t working. Tomorrow is the last day of class. I suggest you don’t ask me any questions because I can’t promise that I won’t say something really nasty.
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