By: CS DeWildt
All my life I wanted to do something. I wanted to be someone special. I wanted people to worship me. I looked around at boring people and their boring lives and I’d think, “I’m better than them.” I was better than the stuck up cashier at Dunkin Donuts who was clearly a lesbian. I was better than my failure professors who quit giving me the extensions I needed.
“You can’t put a deadline on creativity!”
“I can. It was last week.”
I was better than the rest of the film school kids and their cliques: The Noirs, The Kubricks, The Coens, The Ramies, The pseudo-intellectuals who summered in Prague and came back with a 37 minute shot of a girl dancing in a kitchen and called it a film. The whole of the department knew nothing about the cinema, they had no heart and their work had no passion. My work was pure passion, pure heart. It was real.
“I don’t get it.”
“There was nothing to get.”
“The framing, was that on purpose?”
Idiots.
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