I am mildly deranged, dreadfully misplaced, and uncommonly ladylike. I don't like most people, I probably don't like you, but that's more of a defense mechanism than anything else.Inquire Submit
I’m a chronic self-saboteur. I am always waiting around the corner from myself, pipe bomb in hand, to ruin great things.
I have a nice life. I could really do something with it, couldn’t I? I could be pretty amazing, I’m already pretty fantastic, but boy, that’s a lot of pressure. I don’t want to be amazing. When you’re amazing, people expect you to keep being amazing, or worse, to keep getting more amazing.
So I do stupid things, or don’t do smart things, and I stay comfortably above average but never exceptional enough to attract too much attention.
I’m sick of it. I’m sick of self sabotage, I’m sick of this resistance I’m always mounting against myself, and I’m sick of remaining in the bubble of my comfort zone or, best case scenario, just on the fringes of it. I promised myself this year would be better, and in many ways it has, but in just as many ways it’s been just the same stupid shit all over again. I’m sick of being comfortable, I want to be invincible and exceptional, and I refuse to accept any other outcome. One day I will sit on top of my little chunk of world and see that it is mine.
- Marilyn Monroe (strangers on the street)
-Lauren Bacall (a policewoman)
-Rita Hayworth (an old man in an elevator)
-Betty Grable (my friend Cassandra, my father, an old man on the street)
-Greta Garbo (an old man at a bar)
-Joan Crawford (my mother, strangers on the street)
-Elizabeth Taylor (my father)
-Mae West (my boyfriend)
-Ava Gardner (an old man on the train)
-Olivia de Haviland (an old man in Walgreens)
-Carrie Fisher (a client)
-Geena Davis (a man on the bus)
-Judy Garland (a woman on the train, strangers on the street)
The only conclusion I can draw from this is that I look nothing like any of these women, and am just an exquisite corpse of lady-features.
- Rachel: I am emailing you a bad Star Wars joke because reasons.
- Rachel: https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/734210_10151436171696197_776043966_n.jpg
- Me: OH MY GOD MOST AMAZING THING EVER HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- Me: Han Choir...
- Rachel: Yes. Han Choir. Though I myself would most like to see a Han barbershop quartet.
- Me: Ohmigod yes.
- Me: Singing such memorable songs as, 'It Is Worse,' 'My Wookie Friend,' 'Don't Everyone Thank Me At Once,' 'A Princess and a Guy Like Me,' and 'The Millennium Falcon Will Last Millennia.'
- Rachel: DYING.
- Me: No, seriously, we need to find some Harrison Ford lookalikes and get on this.
It’s funny how frequently I get asked if I’m an actress, if I’m in movies. Not, “are you wearing a costume?” but “are you in movies?”
I look like the stars of yesterday, the studio giants who were never seen from angles other than their best, who sailed along like enchanted birds. I am, as much by design as by genetics, a Frankenstein’s monster of beautiful women. I have Bettie Grable’s face and legs. I have Marilyn Monroe’s ass. I have Joan Crawford’s tits.
People ask me, “are you in movies?” and I smile and say no, no, I’m a writer I just dress like this and they say, “you look like a movie star. You should try it.”
But I don’t look like today’s movie stars.
We don’t have legends anymore. There are no more Grables, Crawfords, or Monroes, there are no more Hepburns, Bacalls, Novaks, or Hayworths, the Swansons and Gishes and Brookses and Moores are dead and buried but they are still our idea of what a real movie star is. We have actresses now, we don’t have stars. Our stars are just like us, they go to Starbucks in their sweatpants, they don’t appear to inhabit a higher plain. They do not seek to hide the tawdry humanity of their lives, they revel in it, give interviews about it, they are in no way aspirational.
The stars of yesterday were aspirational in a way I am not, but at least I have aspirations. I do not own sweatpants. I do not want anyone to think I am just like them. Maybe that is what people see when they tell me I look like a movie star.
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Welcome to PULP FICTION where the worst writing and the cheesiest covers of the mid twentieth century find a loving home.
All books are from my personal collection and are scanned and transcribed by me.
Seriously though, I really don’t mean to blow my own horn or be like, “hello, my name is Cate and I am so beautiful I look like the girl with the million dollar legs, even down to my actual (but tragically uninsured) legs.” but every time I see a picture of Betty Grable I get freaked out by how much I look like her.
What if Betty Grable had a secret love child when she was a teenager? And that secret love child got put up for adoption and got snapped up right away because it was so beautiful? And it grew up never knowing it was Betty Grable’s baby? And became one of my grandparents? And what if I am Betty Grable’s great-granddaughter? And she is looking down on me from the Hollywoodland in the sky and telling me to dye my hair blonde? WHAT IF?!