Here is some actress called Lauren Anne Miller talking about her moment of inspiration:

I was 19… I became friends with this boy… we ended up sitting on a bench… and ended up having what I feel was like my first real, true, superhonest conversation with a stranger…It was at that moment that I decided I wasn’t going to go to fashion-design school anymore, that I was going to finish the semester and leave and go to film school. (bold the author’s) Gross, Jessica. (September 12, 2012).  Great Moments in Inspiration, Part II. The New York Times Magazine.

Oh thank God and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, dear Lauren Anne, that you had that “superhonest” conversation and came to that all-important conclusion that fashion-design was not for you and you should be a film-star instead. For what would have the film-viewing humanity done, if you had not arrived at this conclusion, the moment of you which you felt was so exciting and important that it had to be recounted in tiny detail for a shoddy reporter. But tell us more, didn’t Karl Lagerfield and Vivienne Westwood wail and gnash their teeth in horror and despair when they heard of your soul-searing decision? Didn’t Karl pull out his pony-tail, didn’t Vivienne accidentally dye her hair maroon, blinded with tears as she must have been? How did Daddy and Mummy react to this decision, do tell us, for you are so fascinating. No doubt they were happy that you were happy, and something tells me the horrendous tuition bills you left behind in the wake of your decision barely made a dent in the family pocket-money.

I ask you, Gentle Reader, in this era of global horror, of insecurity, heartache and thwarted dreams, how can somebody talk so ignorantly and un-ironically of her decision to do fashion design instead of film- oh sorry it’s the other way round isn’t it? Does this woman live on this earth? These people, they make Marie Antoinette look like Florence Nightingale, seriously.

Lest the Gentle Reader accuse me of jealousy, why yes, how perceptive of you! I am jealous of these people’s blithe wealth. As I think of my bills, my part-time job applications, my children, our shaky future and  whether it is worth spending another $280 on extended insurance for them by tomorrow, I twitch and shudder, and wish I could re-direct some of those tuition funds for fashion-design and film for Miss Miller my own way. Then I remember the people I know who are immeasurably worse off than I. I shudder again, and I remember to be grateful for my luck and privilege, and I correct my wish, wishing instead that those funds could be directed to them, for I, so far, have yet proven able to “pull my own carpet from the water” as we say in Farsi.

But jealousy aside, this is not mindless celebrity-bashing. In the same magazine, for example, Carrie Brownstein, another actress talks of never wanting to do anything “that doesn’t involve hunger or ache. You feel like you never want to be complacent or smug or entitled, and you want to ask and demand…” (p. 25). See, Lauren Anne Miller? This was the test you have failed so miserably, sounding as you do, complacent, smug and entitled. No, I am not jealous of you, after all. I will keep my own bitter angry awareness, I would not trade it with you, and your superhonest thoughts on fashion and film for the best extended insurance package in the world.



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