counting backwards

Talk to Me

Last night, I realized that Reality Bites had a strong hand in forming the person I became in my 20s and 30s, which is probably why I’ve had such poor results.

I haven’t seen this movie in years, but I saw it parked on Cinemax OnDemand, and it was too tempting to pass up. Reality Bites is complete shit. I realize that now, but back in 1994, when I was an impressionable 17-year-old, the movie had a profound affect on me. I think it was one of the first movies made for my target demographic: the sort of art-y wastoid wannabe confused about his place in the world. I got all the pop culture references. To this day, a lot of my slang is derived from lines in the movie, though at this point, Reality Bites is so incorporated into my personal vernacular that I’d forgotten the source.

Last night was a harsh reminder. I clutched my bowl of Raisin Bran (I’m drawn to its hearty dose of fiber) and cringed as it all flooded back to me. How Winona Ryder became my paradigm for female beauty; how Ethan Hawke emerged as a role model for the man I wanted to become; how “My Sharona” became the benchmark by which I judge all songs. (I think it’s the most perfect rock/pop song ever written: pointless and catchy with a ripping solo.)

See what I mean?

Throughout the history of film, there has arisen a great pantheon of onscreen lovers. However, I was stuck with Laney and Troy—apathetic, frumpy, cynical, shiftless—to define my idea of the ideal couple, which is most likely why I’ll remain poor and unmarried for at least 10 more years.

Speaking of slacking, here’s to never leaving my parents’ house.