I hate electronic cigarettes. That’s not what fucking James Dean or Brando smoked. They probably smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes as they wrenched out repairs on their muscle cars in white cotton t-shirts smeared with oil and grease. Bette Davis wouldn’t have been caught dead standing on a balcony in Paris at four in the morning as Vanity Fair’s Oscar party came to a close smoking an electronic cigarette. She’d be finishing off her pack of Virginia Slims, already fighting off her hangover and blowing smoke into the sky in her ball gown.
I despise my cell phone. Marlyn wouldn’t even know what to do with it. She probably had phone sex with John F. Kennedy in one of the suites at the Hilton, talking on a rotary phone, naked and wrapped up in the phone cord and holding the phone in the crook of her neck as she breathed out her orgasms into his ear while he jacked off in the oval office.
I fucking hate Instagram. The fuck would Audrey Hepburn have done with Instagram? If she had had an instagram she probably would have felt the need to filter her face, which would have been a fucking crime against humanity. Instead she was photographed in black and white and developed gracefully in dark rooms by Italian photographers who always told her that she was beautiful even though she never even believed them. She wore her flaws with pride, even though she didn’t actually have any.
I loathe Okcupid, Tynder and Grindr. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton never would never have wasted their fucking time. They were too busy smashing liquor bottles against the walls in the midst of one of their passionate hurricane like arguments and making up by fucking on the kitchen counter, slicing their feet open on the broken glass and not thinking twice about it. Even though it all eventually fell apart, they both can still say that they had a great love in their lifetime. The kind of love Hemingway would have wanted to write about. Good luck trying to find that shit on the fucking internet.
I’m ashamed of my mood stabilizer. Where the hell would we be if Joan Crawford had gone on a mood stabilizer? We wouldn’t have those movies. All those movies where she accented her broad shoulders and stood up to the leading men and fought back. We wouldn’t have gotten to watch her rise from the ashes over and over again and admire how she always kept her eyebrows in check no matter how precarious a situation she found herself in. And most importantly, Christina Crawford never would have had anything to write about, and Faye Dunaway never would have had the chance to win that Razzie.
I despise airbrushed celebrity culture. It would make Katharine Hepburn sick to her stomach. Four Oscars under her belt and she never accepted any of them in person, because she didn’t believe in it and because she would have rather worn pants. She was the kind of woman who made it very clear that she could do it on her own in every way shape and form, outside of a man. And we don’t have that now. That used to be the norm. Now strong women are a minority.
I wish I was somewhere else most of the time. A time period where we were more present as human beings, and spent more time looking at the sky than screens. It keeps me looking back instead of looking forward most of the time, but I like sitting there in the back row by myself with my fantasies. I can be whatever I want back there. Because when I’m back there with ghosts that I feel like I can actually relate to, I feel more like me, and I feel free.