And so far, they've mentioned two movies I've never even heard of before! Scratch that, make it three. Crazy Heart, Paris 36 and The Secret of Kells! I would really love to see The Secret of Kells, it's an animated film that looks totally cool. I love animated movies. I don't care if they're for little kids, they always have the best stories.
Tina Fey and Robert Downey Jr., some of my favourite actors, are announcing the results for best screenplay. Downey Jr. said the funniest thing, that movies were "a collaboration of handsome, gifted people and sickly mole-people."
Oh dear, I'd forgotten that John Hughes had died (1950-2009). You know, he made some of the greatest movies, and those movies were the only good thing to come out of the 80s.
To interrupt my Oscar viewing, here's my original screenplay, starring my little brother Peter, in "Being A Dumb Cunt".
BEING A DUMB CUNT
by Lisa Recchia
by Lisa Recchia
DAD knocks on the door. He and PETER have plans to do something with a car, I don't know, some kind of MALE BONDING RITUAL.
DAD: Are you ready?
PETER: Yeah, hold on.
I walk over, joking.
ME: Can you believe this guy brought the XBOX over, but forgot my favourite game?
DAD: (sounding confused) You brought the XBOX to mum's?
PETER gets quiet and walks away. Apparently, this was some kind of secret.
RACHEL: Yeah, and a TV. How did you not know?
PETER acts like a rude bitch and walks away to watch what's on TV. DAD is offended and hurt, and leaves.
RACHEL: What the hell! Get your shoes on!
PETER: I don't have any shoes here!
ME: You don't have any shoes here? What are you talking about, you must have worn a pair of shoes here.
PETER mutters something horrible, I'm sure, and stomps upstairs like a BABY. He comes downstairs and starts to put on a pair of shoes. DAD has already left.
RACHEL: Dude, Dad left already.
PETER: FUCK! (slams one of his shoes into the wall)
ME: Quiet, mum's sleeping!
RACHEL: Do you want me to call him?
PETER: ...Yeah. Yeah, call him.
RACHEL calls DAD. PETER puts on his shoes so slowly, like omg, I've never even seen anyone put their shoes on this slowly. On the TV, BEN STILLER is dressed like a creature from AVATAR, providing plenty of distraction for any retarded 14 year old.
RACHEL: Okay, Dad's turning around. Get a jacket on, I told him you were ready.
PETER: I don't have a jacket!
ME: What are you talking about?
RACHEL: Just wear this. It's Lisa's, but it's a boys hoodie.
PETER: Fuck that! I have one upstairs.
ME: What the fuck is going on.
PETER stomps upstairs, while RACHEL and I are saying things such as...
RACHEL: What the fuck is wrong with him.
ME: I hate this family.
Stomping down the stairs, PETER returns wearing a hoodie that looks almost exactly like the one he didn't want to wear.
RACHEL: Dude, why are you walking so slow? Goddamnit, Dad's waiting for you!
ME: Peter, you're being rude.
PETER: Shut the fuck up, my leg hurts!
RACHEL: Buddy, Dad is going to leave again.
PETER: FUCK YOU.
PETER slams his elbow into the door and leaves. I am left with the feeling that I never want to see him again.
Man, why haven't I gotten an Oscar?
I don't know what's wrong with my lately. Everyone is getting on my nerves, and I just feel angry and fucked up all the time. I'm starting to get irritated with people I thought I would never get mad at, and I don't want to get mad at. And it's leaving me with all these crazy questions: What am I doing? Am I being petty? Is this just pms? Or am I finally losing it? Was this just something that was always coming, this insanity. It runs in the family. My great-great-great grandfather hacked his wife to death with an axe. I have one aunt that is pretty much insane. Was it only a matter of time before it happened to me too?
Okay, since I'm pretty sure nobody reads this, I'll tell you what's bothering me. My period is over 2 weeks late. On the 3rd, I took a pregnancy test. Negative. On the 5th, I took the other one. Negative. But still, nothing. The chances of my actually being pregnant are low, but it's this nagging paranoia that's haunting me.
Took my dog out so she could throw up (she didn't, stupid bugger, and it's freezing outside), and now I'm going to have a roast chicken dinner, complete with stuffing and roasted carrots, at 8:30 at night. My life (besides the chicken) is starting to feel pretty terrible.