Sunday Correspondence: A Letter To A Bad Friend

Kate Writes:

Dear Bad Friend,

I can remember the first time we met. You were very mysterious and charming and, like any new friendship, you captured my interest with a force I found myself unable to control. I know that sometimes I can come on a little strong, but I think there is a pretty definite line between ignoring a crazy person and ignoring someone who just wants to know if you’d like to catch up for a drink. And I would like to think I am the latter.

Time and time again you have let me down. I remember when we had planned to go away for the weekend. I was so excited that I baked biscuits for the trip but, the night before I was to pick you up, I messaged you to see if there was anything specific I needed to bring. It was as though we had never spoken about the trip, you had forgotten all about it and had made plans to see other people. And while you apologised profusely for letting me down, it didn’t stop that little niggling thought in the back of my mind that asked, ‘why do I even bother?’ and, ‘you don’t really want to be my friend so why do I still want to be yours?’

When we first started this ‘frelationship’ you were wonderful. You sucked me in with stories of your life and what you hoped to accomplish. I felt like I could really be myself around you and wondered if you felt the same.

You see, Bad Friend, that is the very worst thing about this whole situation. You are such a bad friend that it makes me want to be your friend even more. It’s like being attracted to the ‘bad boy’ and hoping that you’ll eventually be able to change their horrible ways with your wholesome and positive outlook. But alas, I fear there is nothing to be done for you. You’re not the first Bad Friend I’ve encountered; not by a long shot. This in itself makes me think I am a masochist who loves being ignored and treated badly. But I don’t, Bad Friend! In fact, I bloody hate it when you don’t return my messages or call me on my birthday! You don’t even offer an excuse for your poor behaviour and that makes the way you behave even more infuriating. You never ask me how I’m feeling or how my life is. I think you should know by now that if I’m going through a major life crisis, I’m not going to offer that information freely!

You need to learn to be more attentive to the needs of the people who love you. I’d really appreciate it if you would be the one to message or call first. I know I am a fairly confident person, Bad Friend, but just once I would like you to organise to see me…and be excited about it! I feel like I’m stuck in that terrible movie ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ and I should cut my losses and move on. You and your treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen ways won’t last forever. I will eventually lose interest in you, Bad Friend…and I think that would be a terrible thing because I honestly believe you are a great person and would feel terrible if we parted ways.

I’m sorry if I’m the one at fault here but I really don’t think I’ve done anything out of the ordinary. I treat you exactly the same as all my other friends. The only difference is that you don’t reciprocate the way my other friends do. Yes, that’s right…it’s not me, it’s you! The things you do (or should I say DON’T do) are noticeable to me in a way that you always seem to have my attention. And it isn’t always a good thing.

All I’m asking for is a little bit of common courtesy. I’m not your parent, I shouldn’t have to tell you how to behave. I wish I could flick a switch and you would turn into the good friend I know you can be. I’m going to give you one more chance, Bad Friend. And then I’m going to tell you I’ve given up. You take up too much of my time for such little, or worse, no reward. I want to be able to feel happy when we’re together, not worried about whether or not I’m ever going to hear from you again.

There should be a club for people like you so that people like me never run into you and waste their lives trying for nothing. It would save so much time and heartbreak. You can hang out with people of your own kind. I’m sure you’d enjoy all the one-sided conversations that go on forever and have no point. And you’d never have to worry about calling anyone back because nobody would care enough about you to give you their phone number.

Throw me bone, Bad Friend…I’m not asking for the world, truly.

Sincerely,

Kate Stark.

Lauren Writes:

Dear Bad Friend,

You’ve been around for a long time. You’ve taken shape in various incarnations over the years, popping up as one acquaintance or another, but have always been recognisable with your trademark snickering and a self esteem bruising blow.

We’ve had such fun at times, Bad Friend, that it has been hard to recognise you for who you are in the beginning. You and I have eaten together, listened to music and watched movies, giggled over crushes and taken up each other’s causes. We’ve talked on the phone, we’ve IMed and we’ve emailed, we’ve shared everything down to the tiniest of details. That’s the way it always starts; with me smitten with your charm and delighted with the friendship you offer, and sometimes the good times seem to roll on and on.

But then, all of a sudden, you decide I’m not good enough to be your friend anymore. In your mind I cross, for some reason or another, over that line; that very thin and flimsy divide between the people you think are cool and the people you think aren’t. Perhaps I choose to wear the wrong type of clothing, perhaps I unknowingly snub you in some way, perhaps you feel threatened by or uncomfortable with some part of my character. Who knows? I, at least, am always left guessing.

Luckily for me, there have been far more versions of Good Friends, more Caring Friends and Supportive Friends, than there have been of you, Bad Friend, in my life. I’ve never had too hard a time picking myself up and dusting myself off after the whirlwind of your visits. There have been times when you have rubbed off on me, and turned me into a Bad Friend who continually whinges and pities themselves after your inevitable hurtful departure, but luckily my friend repertoire holds many of the Patient Friend variety, and I (hopefully quickly) work myself out of this phase.

You’ve taught me a bit about self respect, Bad Friend, but I’m not going to go all Christina Aguelira and thank you for the lesson, because I don’t think the way you taught it was at all necessary. I have grown into an adult who values my time enough to not waste it on the likes of you, one with a keen eye to sort between the stayers and the more fickle minded.

Bad Friend, I’ve made the decision to never make acquaintance with you again. I know that you are unpredictable and like to hide in the most unseeming of characters, but I will be trying my best. Do us both a favour and stay away?

Sincerely,

Lauren

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter To Swearing

Special Guest Writer Kate Says: 

Dear Swearing,

I don’t need you in my life. There, I said it and it’s true! The last time I said the ‘F’ word I was an angst-ridden 16-year-old and I felt so dirty afterwards that I vowed never to repeat it again…ever! Unlike my peers, I don’t find an emotional outlet by screaming filthy words in public (or in private for that matter). Needless to say, the ‘C’ word has never passed my lips. Yes, it’s true, I have been known to throw around a couple of humpty-dumpties, such as ‘shit’ and ‘bloody’ in my time, but never in front of the elderly or children and to be honest, hardly ever in front of my friends.

If I am too upset to string a sentence together, I will not lower my intelligence level by filling in the blanks with F-bombs. Instead I will walk away from the situation, clear my head and come back with a constructive response. But you see, the problem is, Swearing, you’re not just there in the moments of emotional turmoil. You’re EVERYWHERE! You’re there in the places and moments I least expect. Surprising me at every turn. You’re on the lips of men who have had too much to drink and think they’re hilarious. You’re squatting in the brains of mothers who are at the end of their tether in the supermarket aisles. Children use you freely in the playground. You’ve even set up shop in my friend’s throats, waiting for the most inappropriate opportunity to strike.

Hearing my family swear is like watching a male-identified transsexual give birth, it’s awkward and you wonder if you’ll ever be the same afterwards.

My last run-in with you involved a group of primary school aged boys running around the swimming room changing rooms. They were all naked with one boy telling the others in no uncertain terms what he was going to do with his (and I quote) “F-ing big, black cock!” …this coming from the mouth of a scrawny, ginger-haired, Scottish child. No, Swearing, I don’t know where his parents were but let’s hope they would have been just, if not more, appalled by his outburst.

I’m not going to lie anymore Swearing. You’re totally offensive to me and there’s nothing you can do to stop me from feeling this way…unless it involves expanding the vocabulary of every man, woman and child to a point where they will be able to express themselves without you.

Your nemesis,

Kate Stark.

Lauren Says:

Dear Swearing,

I was ten when I met your first, before that you’d just been a blurry familiarity, whizzing by on late night tv shows I wasn’t meant to watch and falling from the lips of adults who had slipped up and then made an ungainly attempt at covering it up.

At ten, you were the coolest thing to come around. Cooler, even, than making it on to the newly formed dance squad, or playing handball at lunchtime. All of a sudden all the tykes at school were whipping out strings of expletives with the epic enthusiasm and embarrassing clumsiness. I refrained, partly because being cool, no matter how much I cursed, was probably beyond me (that said I did make it on to the dance squad the year after that, and my handball skills are nothing short of awesome) and partly because I was sure my mum had super spies hidden in the playground who would report back to her on the foulness of my language.

High school came and you upped your level. There were new words and they certainly weren’t all limited to four letters. Anatomical references melded their way in and soon things got very offensive, but also, to our young minds, very hilarious. I have to say I slipped in high school, the mild tongued lass I had been taking on the language she thought made her seem more adult. I was the absolute queen of knowing my timing though, never once bringing out the bad words in front of parents, teachers, the elderly or the young. Swearing was a peer thing more than a part of myself.

Now I’m an adult, I have to say I can appreciate a well timed curse or a dirty worded joke. I don’t have the mouth of a sailor, no sir, but there are times when a swear word here or there in movies, books or conversation might stir my amusement. It has to be creative though, if our frankly pretty adequate language is to be bastardised then thought needs to be put into it.

Swearing, I don’t think we’ll ever become close friends, you and I. We will never be effortless together, just stilted and awkward like two peas of very different kinds stuck in the same pod, and that’s not the way it’s meant to be. I like you sometimes, you make me laugh, but there are times when you are very hurtful and down right crude. I’d like to see you used more sparingly, though I fear sounding like the most boring old biddy when I say this, you’re becoming too much a part of the vernacular. I say it for you benefit as well, think of the impact you could have, the laughs you could get or the seriousness you could inspire if you picked your moments wisely.

Swearing, I hope to hear from you far less often in future.

Not yours,

Lauren 

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to an Alien Life-Form

To What-ever-you-are,

Greetings? We come in peace?

Well, it’s probably more likely that you’ve come here. In which case, please don’t hurt us. Earth has lots of amazing things to offer you, like Lady Gaga's wardrobe, Neil Patrick Harris and the recipe to Sizzler Cheese Toast. If these don’t impress you, then you should find a new civilization to pillage and plunder, cause it doesn’t get much better than Sizzler Cheese Toast, and that’s a fact.

If you don’t hurt us, I’m sure we could find a way to live together in harmony, although it might take a while since we’re still working on the living in harmony bit at the moment despite being all the same species. I’ve seen enough episodes of Doctor Who to know that in time we could totally live in peace with one another. Unless you’re Dalek, Cybermen or Sontaran, in which case I’d appreciate it if you’d promptly Fuck Off before you ruin everything you giant pricks.

So I guess we should, as they say here on earth “get to know each other”, especially if we’re going to be engaged in some sort of multi-galactic Politics. We’re human beings, or humans for short. We have survived her for a relatively long time and we have opposable thumbs, which are awesome and really nifty for holding things and turning doorknobs. There are also animals on this planet, some of which we like to eat, and some of which like to eat us. We don’t like the ones that eat us very much, except Sharks, which we like to celebrate for an entire week (a week comprises of seven days), which we call Shark Week.

This is a picture of a Shark. Source: www.shark-pictures.com

Don’t jump to the conclusion that we worship sharks like gods though. We are really diverse creatures, and although some may indeed consider sharks to be gods, there are many others that pray to other deities and then there are some who don’t believe there are gods at all.

Sorry for the religious talk, I know it’s one of those things you aren’t supposed to talk about the first time you meet someone.

So, uh, you like, uh, stuff?

Sincerely,

Ell-Leigh

 

Dear As Yet Unidentified But Possibly Still Existing Creature from Outer Space,

How’s it going? I’m well, happy, fed and warm, so things for me are pretty good.

I have so many questions to ask you, questions I feel I should ask if I’m lucky enough to be granted an audience with a real live alien. You don’t mind being called that, do you? An alien? If you have a preferred name please send it along and I’ll make the change. Maybe I should capitalise the a…

So I should probably start with telling you a bit about myself before I grill you! (I don’t mean literally grill you like cook you, it’s just a phrase, a saying…a metaphor? Do you have metaphors in your language? I sure hope so.) I’m a human being and I live on the planet Earth. I’m of the female variety of humans and I like to eat ice cream, although if you had to break it down a large percentage of my diet wouldn’t really be made up of ice cream, so you probably shouldn’t use that as material in any human being dietary research studies. I bet you’ve never had ice cream, have you? You poor creatures!

I’m pretty small for a human, really, there are in fact human children who are larger than me by age twelve. So again, not really a useable fact about the average human, my height. I spend a lot of my time going to things with friends; shows, dinner, pubs, but I also spend a lot of time working. Half the time I work with children and half the time I write. Do aliens, sorry, Aliens, have to have jobs? In fact, is there a currency that you work with that necessitates having paid employment or are you a ‘everyone pitches in and takes out what they need’ kind of society? Does that work for you? Here, we call that the ideal of communism, the commun- part I assume meaning communal and the -ism something we just like to chuck on the end of words to make them end, but don’t worry, you’ll get used the language, anyway the point I was making is that we’ve never really gotten that kind of communism idea to work properly with us, so if that is what your society is like it’d be great to see it in action! How’s that for a tangent though, I start out giving you a basic introduction to my life as an earthling and I wind up at communism!

That’s probably enough about me anyhow. If it’s alright I’ll ask you some more questions now, but if you find any of them rude or embarrassing please just disregard. Ok? Ok. Here we go. First question; I have always wondered if you guys wore clothing? And how you communicate with each other? Also, do you keep pets? Is there more than one species living on your planet? How do you die? Are there illnesses you catch, or degenerative diseases, or is it just old age that does it to you? What is your average life expectancy? Have you built structures, like buildings for shelter? Do you live in family groups or grouped somehow else or singularly? Do you have a concept of work time and down time, or is it all go go go for you, like it is for ants? Is there such a thing as Alien governments, or any type of societal hierarchy?

I should probably leave it there, I always ask all these questions and it ends up requiring a huge reply from my reader! I hope you write back, and if you do please feel free to ask me any of the same sort of questions and I’ll happily answer.

I have this fear that you’re going to turn out to be, well, a not very exciting type of Alien. In my mind I picture you as an intelligent creature with independent thoughts and a concept of things like life, other species and exploration of other solar systems. It’s possible, though, that you’re just some kind of bacteria like single celled organism, some kind of amoeba, and that would be disappointing. You might be vegetation also, of course, which probably means you wouldn’t answer this letter. Anyway, if you are a bit more primitive than I’m expecting, I’d like to share with you some knowledge that we humans have that might really excite you. It sure did wonders for our species, that’s for sure.

See it! That’s called a wheel. I tell you, get the wheel involved and the possibilities for life are endless. If you go to this page here it’ll tell you all about what it does and how we use it.

That’s probably enough for now. I hope this letter finds you well, and that maybe one day we can meet. Just give me a warning in advance, though, because otherwise I might get a bit of a fright initially. I’m sure you’re a lovely Alien though, once a person gets to know you.

Well, cheerio! Please write back!

Lauren

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to Our Pets

Dear Professor Charles Xavier Chewins,
(AKA Charlie Chew, Shmarlie Shmoo, Muttley Furface, Chew Man Foo, My Little Shmoo Shmoo, Charles Chewenstein, etc),

I’m writing to say sorry about the whole moving to Brisbane thing. I hear that it’s been really hard on you, with the terms “depressed” and “a broken puppy” being used to describe you lately. When I heard that you’d even taken to not chasing after your fish toy I have to admit I started to worry.

You’re still my Shmoo Shmoo and the only puppy in my heart, my fluffy friend, and although you look ridiculous after your last haircut (oh, oh so ridiculous) I still think you’re the best dog in the whole world. Even better than K9, and he’s from outer space and knows The Doctor and Billie Piper. That’s kinda a big deal.

So I’m sorry we haven’t come back to visit you in a while, but I’m afraid our visits will probably only become less frequent. I’m sorry, and I miss you too! So much, my Shmoo.

Anyway, I’ll see you on Thursday night.

Love you lots,

Ell-Leigh



Dear Godwin,

You nearly died this morning. I actually thought you were dead for a full five minutes, which was a bit awkward because I was just about to write this letter and I wasn’t sure what I would say to a dead fish. It was pretty intense you know, you were just hanging there, suspended at the top of the water all floaty and dead-like.

As much as I’d like to believe that your time tracking skills set loses out with your fish brain tendencies, and that this morning was a belated April Fools joke, I don’t think that’s the truth. You’re getting old, Godwin, and it’s showing. I’m not sure I’m ready for this, but I’m trying to keep in mind that it’s just natural progression. You’ve had a really good life, Godwin.

I remember when I first bought you home; you were so tiny and excited. A whole tank all to yourself! You used to love diving under the bubble jet and swimming endless loops around your new pad. It was delightful to watch, you seemed so content with so little.

You’ve been good company over the past eight months. I know people laugh… “A fish!” they say, “What can a fish do for you?!” But I know better. You’ve always been there to greet me in the morning, scrambling in that funny way you have at the top of the water for your breakfast. And you’ve always been there when I arrive home tired from work. You cheer me on with the frantic flapping of the fins that look just too small for your body and the wiggling of the tail that seems just too large. You’ve watched me while I’ve cooked dinner and not judged me when I’ve then taken it to the couch to eat in front of the tv. You’ve patiently waited each night for me to turn off your bubbles and light so you can go to bed and you’ve never once whinged that you’re sleepy, even if I’ve forgotten them and left them on all night. Godwin, you’ve been the perfect pet.

You’re pretty old, for a goldfish, I guess, though apparently you could have lived for twenty years, so what do I know? You’re pretty, very pretty, with your long white tail and orange and black spots. You’d drive the ladies wild in the wild, I’m sure.

Godwin, you’ve seemed so tired lately, hanging around on the rocks and staying out of the bubbles and I don’t know how many days your little body has left in it. I want you to know that it’s ok to go, Godwin, I’ll be ok. Sure, I might add a bit of saline to your tank water, but be happy in thinking that you’ll be remembered fondly.

Goodbye, Godwin.

Lauren


Ps. If you really aren’t dying, and you’ve just taken up extreme floating as a side-hobby, please let me know so I can stop gathering the housemates for impromptu mourning sessions. Cheers.

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to My Skin

Dear Skin,

I’m writing to apologise. I know you were enjoying the extra care I’d been giving you the last few weeks, and it was really nice to see you being clear and gummy again. You were glowing!

Then I decided to go on a cleanse. We’d been getting some reports from digestion that it would be necessary to do so soon. Now you’ve got an itchy rash happening and pimples are coming up from so deep they possibly originated in our soul. Your job is hard enough without rogue toxins trying to escape through you and me piling on cloggy make up to disguise them.

You’re much more important than I give you credit for. Sure, I praise you when you look good on my face, but I still paint all over you to “improve” what you’re trying so hard to create. You do so much more than just look good though, you sweat, heal when I hurt myself, make Goosebumps when it’s cold, hold my insides, uh, inside. And just when I start making some effort to repay you for all the hard work you do I decide to pump a crap-load of crap out through you to “detoxify” my body.

I hope it’s worth it, not just for my sake, but also for yours, because not having all of that toxic waste around should make it a lot easier for you to do your job and look fabulous while you’re doing it. I also promise I’ll continue to give you the products and support that you need throughout this long process, and will try not to wear too much make up where possible. I would like to remind you about how I’ve stuck with my “no sunburn in 2011” resolution, and assure you that my new pledges will be just as successful as this one has been.

I speak for all of us here at Ell-Leigh when I say we want you to know that you aren’t going through this detox alone and that we’re here if you need someone to talk to. As you know a body is full of complex systems that have to support each other to function, and although it may feel lonely, out there, away from the digestion and cardiovascular organs, we want you to know that we appreciate your work and recognise that the last week has been hard for you.

Sincerely,

Management
(Ell-Leigh’s Brain)

Dear Skin,

Guess what? Today, at a skin care shop, the consultant called you normal. Did you hear it? “Let’s see, your skin type looks pretty normal…” she said. Well, wasn’t I chuffed! I mean; normal! What a first.  

We do not have such a kind recent history, you and I, and I’m sorry about that. You were never quite what I wanted you to be, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t treat you quite how you would have liked, either. You see, I always dreamt of having that glowingly clear, porcelain type skin, the kind that people liken to a baby’s bottom. You, well, you were not quite that; I can most certainly assure you that my face cheeks have never been compared to those of an infant’s posterior. I’ve kind of really resented you for that, which in hindsight is not really fair, because how did you know I wanted you to look like bottom? You’re a face. Yes, Skin, I’d say we hit a bit of a rough patch during puberty, and it was more than just a case of simple miscommunication.  

Too oily in some places, too dry in others, too sensitive all over, over the past few years I’d label you passable at the best of times, at the worst downright awful. It’s hard to remember a time as a teenager that I wasn’t constantly on the alert for the pimples you grew on my face, both driving me crazy and being generally humiliating. I can, in fact, remember the very first one there ever was. I was only in Grade Six at school (so young!) and I remember a boy asking me what it was. “It’s just a pimple,” I tried an air of nonchalance. The reply? “Wow. Geez.” Yes, geez indeed.

Of course, I wasn’t exactly helping you out with my icecream scoffing, chocolate adoring* ways, was I? I was intelligent enough to understand that my diet, what it contained and what it lacked, was inextricably linked to the condition of you, Skin. With this nutritional knowledge I didn’t really change my ways, though, I just kept hating you and the seeming injustice of it all, eating more chocolate and icecream and sometimes icecream with chocolate, all the while your condition continuing to worsen.

Skin, for a long time, I regarded you almost as an enemy, which is not really so positive with you being my body’s largest organ and all. It wasn’t our best time, and I suggest we put it behind us, Because, you know what? Things are getting better now. I mean, obviously, since someone looked at you today and decided that you looked perfectly normal and all. Puberty’s over, and suddenly, thankfully, I don’t have to worry about you so much anymore, which leaves a surprisingly large void in my time. I’m beginning to realise just how much of my thoughts have been focussed on you, so tied up you were in every aspect of my life. From eating to sleeping to what make up I used and how I could cover the blemishes up, how much I was stressed and whether certain types of exercise made you look worse or better, I could take you into consideration with nearly every decision made.  

On the positive, now, not only do I have a lot of free time to do things other than frown at the mirror, but I also have a really good knowledge of nutrition, how my body operates and my specific needs and what to look for in friendly, natural ingredient based skin care products. I’ve finally come to my senses and eased up a bit on the icecream/chocolate scenario, adding more raw veges and large amounts of detoxifying lemon water to my diet instead.

Without having to try and ‘fix’ you, I wouldn’t have become so interested in healthy living, and I’m pretty grateful that you guided me down that path. Also, not growing up with the snazzy looking, bum-like skin I wanted made me think about the other things that made me attractive and acceptable, things a bit more permanent than my looks.

Skin, I haven’t been too nice to you and I’m sorry. You do your best, I know you do, and I promise to keep doing my best to help you out as well. We make a pretty good team, you and I. Tonight, I drink a big cup of pure old water in your honour.

Cheers Skin.

Lauren  

*For the doubters out there: during that time I single-handedly proved that for some of us (me, at the very least) chocolate definitely is linked to skin blemishes. I used a system of trial and error, the trial and error both ending up being the eating of copious amounts of chocolate, and the evidence undeniably pointing toward chocolate being an awfully terrible choice for my skin. So...there!

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to the Douche We Love

Dear Matthew Newton,

Oh man you put me on shaky ground. This is not how love should be, you know? Love should be ever patient and kind etc., so says The Bible. But at the moment for us love just consists of me making ever awkward and increasingly line crossing public statements to your defence, while you go making ever awful and increasingly line crossing public mistakes.

The problem is that I have this thing for you that I just can’t deny. It originated with Looking For Alibrandi, of course, when you were heartbreakingly perfectly cast as John Barton and made me sob all over myself. Then there were appearances on Thank God You’re Here, when I was just discovering live comedy, and next ABC’s Stupid Stupid Man. Yes, you made me laugh, you made me cry, you made me swoon. You surprised me with the talent you showed in Underbelly and I found your attempts at a New Zealand accent a little alluring.

But along with the good, has also come the very, very bad. From domestic violence to drug and alcohol abuse to trashed hotel rooms and media scandals, you’ve really run the gamut of terrible choices over the recent years, haven’t you? You’ve been involved in incidents which are nothing short of awful, and that makes being a fan of yours a pretty difficult thing. Speaking out about you in any sort of positive way turns me instantly into a social pariah, and the footage of you in all my old favourite television shows and films is now tainted with the knowledge of what the media likes to label your ‘personal demons’.

Matthew Newton, you've turned me into what I call a sufferer of ‘Celebrity Stockholm Syndrome’. Young, naïve and inexperienced in the ways of celebrity worship, I was drawn in by your pretty (if unusually large) face and your droll comedic ways. I was, then, shocked and saddened by what I heard was going on in your life outside of showbiz and as much as I have issues with our society’s labelling of celebrities as ‘role models’, I have to say I was pretty disappointed in you, Matthew, you kinda let me down.

But then…then you started getting it back together. Things seemed to be going well, and mentioning you in public no longer led me into an argument about whether I was condoning the abuse of women*. I began to appreciate your lack of headline making, and the longer things were quiet on the media front, the more I felt grateful to you that you were holding it together. Yes, a classic case of CSS indeed; soon you’ll have me robbing banks.

I’ve heard lately on the news the phrases ‘heading to rehab’ and ‘receiving mental help’ being bandied about. If you are, I do hope it is helping. If you aren’t, I do hope you’re helping yourself. For now I’m trying to just remain a definitive fan of your work but not of your person. It’s difficult, because in our celebrity driven society we’re taught to worship the whole person; their personal life, career and media presence all rolled into one, but for now with you I just can’t.

As I said, Matthew, I’m in a hard place here with you, but I think you’re in a harder one. I hope life gets a little bit better, okay? Find something that helps. And stop being a douche, so I can get back to being your fan.

Lauren

*Which, the author would like to point out, was not, is not and will never be in anyway way condonable or considered anything short of disgusting. 

Dear John Mayer,

I grew up listening to you. When I was in grade eight, your song ‘No Such Thing’ hit the charts and you were, through my narrow understanding of the world, the height of alternative cool. I had a picture of a much younger you on my school books, which I would gaze down at while deeply contemplating putting the lyrics “I want to run through the halls of my high school, I want to scream at the top of my lungs” into action. Your lyrics meant so much to me at the time. “They read all the books but they can’t find the answers”. Yeah. Exactly. Only cool alternative people like me understand life really… Nerds.

Your Room for Squares album would play on repeat while I would play on neopets and chat on msn for hours. It was a pivotal part of my musical education, since I couldn’t pick up Triple J in my bedroom, and the other radio stations weren’t even close to being alternative for my tastes. And you were only a few years older than me… Not really, now that I think of it, but a teenage girl will dream, especially after you released “Your Body is a Wonderland”. Jesus H Christ. Let’s just say, it wasn’t only a love for alternative pop rock that was awoken within me when that song came out.

Your next few albums were released into the untamed musical wilderness and they eventually became part of my rather exclusive cd collection. Bigger Than My Body struck a chord with my dream of becoming a hugely successful Academy Award Winning actress, Daughters similarly managed to evoke emotions deep within me, although what they related to completely baffles me now.

I even bought Continuum at full price. It was around this time that you started being embarrassing. Your pop-rock presence was starting to look out of place in my predominantly cool Triple J influenced cd collection. On top of that your dramas with Jessica Simpson and later, Jenifer Aniston were on every second tabloid magazine, and what they were saying about you wasn’t exactly nice. This was mostly because you were behaving like a douche bag. You had also started to lose your boyish good looks – this didn’t help.

Then I grew up a bit more, and you started being really embarrassing. When people see your music on my ipod I apologetically explain that firstly, I agree with them, you are a douche, but that secondly, Battle Studies (which I’d nonchalantly purchased by myself from JB hifi) isn’t too bad an album, if you’re impartial to slightly bluesy pop rock. However, mostly I just shrug and pretend that I don’t know how it got there.

It’s not so much that your music hasn’t evolved, cause it has, and it still accompanies me when I drive long distances alone, (alone - I’d call it a guilty pleasure, but it isn’t quite that – I don’t like your music quite enough anymore for that title…) but I think your music and your audience from your first album just grew up in different directions… and you’ve been a bit of a git.

It’s just that your music doesn’t fit with the image I have of myself, a grown up, slightly more sophisticated and less famous version of the alternative cool twenty-one year old I had in mind at thirteen. And your behaviour doesn’t match what I now look for in rock star celebrities; way too wanky, not quite enough actual attractiveness, Triple J approved. It isn’t cool to like your music, and you haven’t really been terribly likeable either. And yet I have every one of your cds – and you’re the only artist still living today who I can say that about… (I find it embarrassing to admit, and plan to blame it on the advent of downloading music. Yes, it’s iTunes’ and Napster’s fault.)

So John - if I can call you John – I’m sick of having to be bothered to sneak around if I want to listen to your music. So either pick up your game, get some street cred and stop being a douche, or I’m going to have to break up with you.

Ell-Leigh

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to the Female Film Character I Admire (Even Though She Is a Terrible Role Model)

Dear Claire Colburn,

I’ve often wondered; is it that I see myself in you, or that I see the girl I would like to be? There must be a reason for the way I admire you that is more than just my jealousy of the way you can pull off a red beret, making it seem completely casual and not at all ‘try-hard Francophile’. Yes, although they’re pretty neat, I think there is more to it than your skills with headwear.

Of course, you’re not real, and I don’t kid myself into thinking that you are. You are a creation of a team of filmmakers, primarily Cameron Crowe, but also costume and set designers, cinematographers and editors and, let’s not forget, Kirsten Dunst. But fictionalisation has never stopped admiration before and from the moment I first saw you in an Elizabethtown trailer I marvelled at you.

Firstly and foremost, I think, it’s your comfort in yourself. You acknowledge your tastes, personality, wants and influences and wear them openly and you do this in a way that goes beyond the definitions of quirky, eccentric or cool and lands at just being yourself. You’re an amalgamation that is Claire, you are your own brand of human being and you seem to live it so easily. You don’t sway to be one way or another to the dictations of anybody else and it’s this comfort, this ease within a person that makes them, makes you, irresistible.

And you know what, everybody likes you for this. Yes, everybody. You are exciting, sensitive, witty and fun. You put people at ease with your smile and charm and without worrying about who you are and what you look like, you have infinite time to give to each person. With this you gain a rare insight into the lives of others’; you become an observer, an empathiser and a confidante to all. You make friends quickly, are accepted easily and adapt as necessary to fill gaps in any social situation.  So self assured are you that others immediately feel better about themselves; more relaxed, more positive. You are a star.

This self comfort and assurance, however, do not equal self pride or value. No, the self confidence you demonstrate does not perpetuate into self worth. You openly label yourself a “substitute person”:

“We're the substitute people. I've been the substitute person my whole life. I'm not an Ellen, I never wanted to be an Ellen. And I'm not a Cindy either…I like being alone too much. I mean, I'm with a guy who is married to his academic career. I rarely see him and I'm the substitute person there. I like it that way. It's a lot less pressure.”

and you put the needs of others ardently before your own. With this label you reassure yourself that you aren’t wholly responsible for anybody or anything, you relieve anxiety about getting hurt by maintaining a pretend distance. You are scared, and so you hide from vulnerability by flitting between connections (you are, in fact, an air hostess) and only ever sharing half the truth about yourself.

And so I feel the need to tell you this Claire; being an amazing person counts for nothing if you don’t know and seek what you deserve. For Pete’s sake, you have Orlando Bloom at one point literally spelling out what it IS you deserve. In fact, you have Orlando Bloom basically offering himself to you as what you deserve. Orlando Bloom! And you don’t take him up on it!! If this doesn’t make it clear that you have some serious issues then fine, leave Orlando alone. I’ll have him.  

Claire, this is a difficult letter to write. On one hand, I really kind of want to be you. On the other, your story makes me very sad. I know that you’re flawed for the purposes of dramatic tension, but oh Claire, so much of me wants to shake you until you get it together.

In the meantime, best wishes. Don’t get jealous if you see another girl walking the streets in a little red beret, it’s only me trying but not trying to be you.

Lauren

Dear Edie Sedgewick (as portrayed by Sienna Miller in the film Factory Girl),

Wow, I’m totally out of my depth here. You are, just, so, way incredibly cool. I don’t know what makes a person cool and another person not, but whatever it is, is what sets us apart. You make everything so glamorous, with your “darlings” and your making statements into questions by putting “don’t you think?” on the end of your sentences as if you’re language patterns come straight from a Marilyn Monroe film or Breakfast at Tiffany’s. You’re so stylish, and you own it, and you hang out with people who changed the world.

I’ll be proud if one day I can lay claim to the title “pet owner”.

Not that my friends aren’t cool, don’t get me wrong. They’re very cool, and clever, but they aren’t the kind of glamorous superstars you surround yourself with. I’ve met those types of people but I never seem to get along with them, and they don’t seem to like the fact that I’m not going to change just to please them. I’m proud of myself for this though. They can be as glamorous as they please but if I disagree with them I won’t bend over and take it. I think this is another way we differ.

The first time you went to the Factory and they were filming that horse? And you stepped in when it reared and you calmed it down? Didn’t that make you feel at least a little uncomfortable? Didn’t spending all that money just to keep up while working without getting paid get on your nerves just a little? And when you met Billy Quinn (Bob Dylan, cough) played by Hayden Christensen, and Guy Pierce’s Andy Warhol started getting jealous and weird, why didn’t you speak your mind earlier?

Was being famous and cool that important? ‘Cause if it was really worth it maybe I’ll try harder, kiss a few arses, lose a few kilos, buy a fur coat and give up listening to music that isn’t “good”. ‘Cause it really looks like you’re having fun… until it all falls apart.

I just want to know if the moral of the story is that no matter what good things do fall to pieces eventually, or that if you keep control of your life you have a chance to hold on to them. I want to know if you can be a little reckless and charming and live the perpetual party and still keep some of the things you love, or if you have to stand your ground and keep control and be bored to stop things slipping through your fingers. In order to leave any legacy at all do you have to burn out bright and early? Sure the Tortoise may have won the race, but the Hare had more fun, right? And who’s life would they make a movie out of? The Hare’s.

I’m sorry for getting so emotional (and comparing you to a children’s story so much), but I think that’s the thing about movies. The characters you want to succeed are the ones that make you the most passionate, and you clearly made a great impression in those first few scenes in the mid sixties. You lived through a lot of really hard times but came out with an appreciation of art and a person who likes people (both of which are a rarity in this world). You flaunted your bold fashion style and made the world fall in love with you, all the while wrestling with inner demons most people probably can’t even comprehend. Your look changed the fashion world.

Women looked to you as a leader into new looks and styles, and now, almost fifty years later they still do. And that means more than a lot of people give it credit for.

This letter probably seems a bit harsh since you paid for your mistakes, literally with your life. I’m sorry you couldn’t keep on the straight and narrow, and make your life better and longer. You were a firework, burning out bright for a heartbreakingly short time. Your legacy lives on in every “return to retro” packaging, in every blond pixie haircut, in every set of earrings with feathers that tickle your shoulders when you wear them, and whenever Lady Gaga wears tights with a leotard and no pants. Without you the world would be a fair deal duller. And although you crashed and burned, like a star that might have died millennia ago, the memory of your spark still brightens each new night sky. 

Ell-Leigh