'My Regression Session, or The Films I Blame for My Being Less-Than-Adequate In Pursuing the Girls I Like' by John Shirley Miller

Courtesy of John Shirley Miller

It’s been a long time buzzlegoose, and oh, how I’ve missed you. My “weekly” column rapidly degenerated into a monthly column, a position I soon hope to reverse back to its brief, yet well-received, heyday. I’ve built houses in New Orleans and been on a family reunion to Alaska since the last time we’ve conversed, yet none of those deeply insightful, indescribable moments have pressed me to write this column with such fervor as the shit show of my life that was last night.

It’s been an interesting first year in Los Angeles.  Walking away from a teaching career and everyone I know in Connecticut and New York to pursue a screenwriting career was supposed to be a conflict-laden decision, but instead was one I made quickly and con cajones. And since I’ve been here, I’ve jumped off a 900-foot building, become a vegetarian, told a cheesecake to go fuck itself in front of Will Smith, and lied consistently on resumes to get jobs. All without batting an eyelash. Since I arrived here, fear has had a hard time stopping me from doing what I want to do; I usually find a way to harness it and turn it into a motive force instead of its usual role as a hard-to-conquer obstacle.

But that all changed, when a succession of specific encounters with a singular encapsulation of the opposite of sex resulted in an unpredictable, unprepared-for outcome, especially given my indifference with regard to females in Los Angeles. Fuck it, I’ll just say it. I have fallen for a girl. In the interest of protecting said victim, (and after reading this I think you’ll agree, she is a victim) I will give her a false moniker — Juno. (Besides, we already know my penchant for fake names, from my last column. It makes me feel important.) Juno and I have hung out more than a few times, and there was a growing attraction on my end, that I soon found to be reciprocated. This is the first girl that I’ve legitimately liked and that has liked me back in almost seven years. (The reasons for this are too many, and would require a separate column to list.) As a result of this, I was scared shitless, for the first time in a long time.

A seven-year absence of dating can have a lot of adverse effects on a person and his or her pursuance of a person they are interested in. Take me for example: In trying to get in good with this girl, I have been instantly transported back to my middle-school days when I didn’t know a god-damn thing about wooing women.  During the middle-school era, I had recently found out what a vagina was, and excited enough by that fact, the courting process took a back-seat in the car of my mind that just now caught up to me 13 years later, drove off a cliff and burst into a fiery cacophony of embarrassment that will forever be known as last night. I knew the inevitable “hanging out” would have to happen at some point, and I was nervous and clueless, a catastrophic combination. I had no idea how to act, what to say, or how to feel.

Juno is the chillest, most laid-back girl in existence. She’s the girl every guy wishes his girlfriend were like, and the girl that all the other girls can’t help but love. She rolls with the boys, rolls with the girls, and never stops smiling. She’s not judgmental, or prideful, or mean. She’s sweet, compassionate, she lets you do you, she lets her be her, and passes the peace pipe onwards.  It sounds like an easy enough situation to ease into, so I had to ask myself quietly this morning, “WHY THE FUCK DID I SIT ON A COUCH FOR HOURS LAST NIGHT, AS FAR AWAY AS POSSIBLE FROM HER, PARALYZED WITH MY BALLS NO WHERE TO BE FOUND, PROBABLY EVEN MORE COWARDLY THAN A MIDDLE SCHOOLER, UNTIL WE EVENTUALLY CALLED IT A NIGHT BECAUSE THE SUN WAS COMING UP, ON THE EVE OF HER BIRTHDAY?”

And then it dawned on me. My co-dependency on films was coming back to bite me in the ass. I had believed too whole-heartedly in the films portraying nail-bitingly awkward guys effortlessly getting girls. I had convinced myself that real life would work the same way, and assumed that even if I was super-awkward with Juno, it would all still magically come together and I would sweep her off her feet. Nope, can’t say that happened. I bombed hard. By the end of the night/morning, after my paralyzed descent into the abyss of inaction, the only thing I was certain of was that she would never want to see me again. So I’m blaming the movies that make it seem like the awkward guy easily gets the girl. I blame ZOMBIELAND, I blame LITTLE MANHATTAN, I blame AMERICAN PIE, and even WHEN HARRY MET SALLY, as Harry was awkward in his own right, and I especially blame JUNO, which brings me to who I blame most of all: Michael Cera, the KING of being the awkward ladies’ man.

Fuck you, Michael Cera, fuck you. It was you who most made me believe that it’s easy to woo someone you like even if you’re terribly awkward around them, and you who most let me down.

But later on last night, as I was driving home to cry myself to sleep in my pillow, my leg vibrated. After realizing that it wasn’t a fart, I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out my phone, and saw a text message. For some fucking reason that will never truly be known to me, Juno wanted to go on an official date with me. Since I’m a movie addict, I suggested we go to the cinema, and texted her that it was the birthday girl’s choice for the moving picture that will forever go down as our first movie together. And that’s when the final five words of the night graced my too-bright, battery-draining iPhone screen: SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD.

Alright, Michael Cera. Maybe I don’t blame you just yet.  Please don’t let me down.