A Cliché A Day...

I started writing a script a few weeks ago, and I'm in the process of nit-picking (editing) it.  It's about four writers living in a house together and the dramas that inspire them to write what they do.  I'm a firm believer in the importance of writers, and also that to be a great writer (of any kind) you need to experience some sort of emotional turmoil that you can pour into your writing like me when I'm putting gravy on to my roast dinner (I like to drown things).

The script that I'm working on is the first part of six, and the idea was to have each episode a play on a cliché.  For instance, the first one is called "Wham, Bam, No Thanks, Man" after "Wham, Bam, Thank You Mam."  The second one is currently called "You're Not The One That I Want" but I don't like it.  I came up with a better title a while ago, but I can't remember what it was, and it's really starting to piss me off.  Damn me and my stupidly bad memory!

Even Googling clichés hasn't helped.  It takes me to all the same sights and they're useless for finding things.  Perhaps I should change my ways (for once) and go for a different angle on things.

We shall see...

Warning: Extreme Sentimentality Ahead

I've always found that certain times of the month turns me into a contradictory cocktail of irritability and sentimentality. Not a fun combination. Funny, for those around me that aren't the target of it, though.

And so I'm sat here, watching one of my favourite episodes of Charmed (season two's Heartbreak City) and feeling maudlin. As much as the character of Phoebe annoyed me during the latter episodes, in the earlier ones, growing up I had a lot in common with her: she changed her hair a lot, she was the baby of the bunch, she didn't know where she was going in life and ended up at university (studying psychology, which I once had an interest in until I realised that I sucked at it), and even though she appeared fearless, she was afraid of the greatest thing of all. Love.

I love my family, and I love some of my friends, but I've always found it hard to let guys in. Growing up in an all-female household they were like some weird alien species to me, and it took me a long time to be able to open up to them and not just view them as something shiny with a six pack.

When I was seventeen, I fell in love. He was my best friend, and to be quite honest, he was a complete douche bag too. One minute he was flirting with me and couldn't wait to see me, and the next minute he'd rather hit on my best friend (or anything else that wasn't me) and make out with her behind my back. Given that they were both my best friends, you would've thought that they'd realise just what they were doing to me, but they didn't care. They were both selfish attention whores, and to be honest, I should've known better.

It took me a really long time to get over not being good enough for him, and I went through a few more (short-lived) douche bags before I met the guy I'm with now. When he first came into my life, I never expected him to stick around. Everyday I was expecting him to stop texting, stop talking, decide that he wanted someone better. But he never does. He wants me. And for the girl who grew up with a cold-heart and thought that she was destined to be alone, it's still a weird feeling, almost eight months later. But I'm not complaining. We know that we're not perfect and that we have our issues, but who doesn't? What matters is that we love each other, and as the old cliche goes: love conquers all.

Frankenkrissy

See, I have this problem. Several, actually. One is that I quite like the talk about myself, but that when I do, what I'm saying seldom makes sense to anyone who doesn't know me. The next one is that when I do speak about myself, I often drag the people in my life into the conversation with me, which leads on to my next problem of constantly putting my foot into a giant pile of doggy doo-doo. I tend to either over or undershare. There doesn't seem to be a halfway point when it comes to my talking. And it gets me into a lot of trouble.

It was bought to my attention the other day that although I find it (relatively) easy to write about how I'm feeling, I can't say it. If something is bugging me, I'll sit there in silence, desperately trying to figure out what I want to say. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. And if I don't, I turn it into a poem or a metaphor or I start speaking in some sort of foreign language that not even my best friends or boyfriend can make sense of. And when they can't make sense of me, you know things are bad. Because those guys are awesome. And they know me far too well.

They also know the golden rule: Never. Take. Me. Seriously.

It sounds silly, but it's true. If you take me seriously when I'm throwing a diva strop, I'll get carried away and turn into Frankenkrissy.

The best, fail-safe methods for dealing with Frankenkrissy are:

Best Friend 1: Laughing at me

Best Friend 2: Telling me to shut up

Mum: Asking one of the following: "It's getting near that time of the month again, isn't it?" or "What have you eaten today?" (I tend to be crankier when I haven't had enough to eat)

And so folks, the golden rule of reading to my blog if I do manage to keep it up is this: remember that everything I say is a big fat stinky pile of crap covered in glitter.