You Aren’t Winona Ryder!

I’m driving home from a read-thru tonight and I have a long night ahead of me of getting some work done and working on my show for next week. I’m craving a coffee, even though it’s gonna have to be a decaf.

I drive to two different Starbucks at 9:05pm. Hosed. They are closed. If I was homeless, I’m sure they’d throw me the last of their decaf, but I’m just standing outside, acting like I can’t read a sign, and so I’m annoying and don’t need anyone’s help.

I drive to the mom & pop type shop in my neighborhood. They are not open either. See? That’s why I don’t frequent you guys. You keep weird hours. Come on. Be Alternative. Be up all night. You could get a lot of Amoeba’s and The Arclight’s evening customers.

I drive to another mom & pop type shop in my neighborhood. I’d have to valet my car to get coffee. I can’t even park and put the hazzards on. I start to drive home and then I remember that 7-11 has kick-ass coffee; and I can handle the annoying and flimsy Styrofoam cups for one night.

I pull into a 7-11 on Sunset and something and go in. I’m so focused. I get my decaf. It’s full and warm and not just sitting around turning into tar. The guys that work here, get it. You don’t let decaf rot all day, just because it’s unpopular. Keep it fresh.

I pour the cup. I throw some French Vanilla international Creams in there. I’m so excited, dreaming of this moment that I’m in right now. Sitting on my feet, perched on my chair, hair in a ponytail, writing with a warm drink, hearing the sounds of the bands playing at Boardner’s outside my window, and fighting off the chill of my apartment. Ahhh.

I’m so in that moment, I just walk straight out of 7-11. I walk out of there like I walk out of the kitchen at work after making coffee, without paying. I get out the door and then realize. “Fuck! I didn’t pay.” I have to go back. But I’m mortified that someone will “catch” me and then I’ll have to back peddle and say, “Oh! I forgot!”

Luckily I run back in shouting, “I forgot to pay!” Some people giggle. I get in line. So proud of myself. The guy in front of me says, “Did you just walk out? That’s hilarious.” He and I laugh and start riffing on scenarios, like if I’m going to steal, fuck it, why don’t I take the whole Krispy Kreme display and act like, “Nothin’ to see here, folks!”

And then some new-to-being-gay-gay guy turns around from his place in line and snaps, “You klepto!” It’s totally not funny. It’s not an “on my side” kind of joking. And he’s accusing me of something that isn’t true. Klepto’s don’t come back. The whole 7-11 goes quiet. It’s really awkward and this guy is pissed.

He says, “I knew you were just a little Winona Ryder wanna be.”

I try to make a joke. I say, “I’m working my way up to Sax Fifth Avenue.”

He scoffs and says, “Good luck, honey.” Like a total queen bitch. And then he repeats, “You little Winona wanna be.”

Everyone is now staring at me, no longer on anyone’s side. It looks like some guerilla theatre and it also looks like this guy just totally called me on my shit. I look like a Winona Ryder wanna be.

He is shouting this at 7-11 in front of everyone. Now everyone is looking at me. I wanna die. I feel like I’m wearing a monocle and a black cape and writing about suicide in my journal while hanging out with a ghost.

I’ve been told at various times in my life that I in certain angles resemble Ms. Ryder. That’s fine. She’s cute. Whatever. Do I aspire to it? Shit no. I have never enjoyed her acting in one movie. She is always making a face like something smells bad, she has no idea how to look like she knows how to hold a cigarette, and I like Heathers as much as the next girl but she just tries too hard. She had a total alternative upbringing, so alternative it was cool and so she can’t relate to real suburban girls with pale skin and semi-black hair.

I had forgotten about this Winona thing having been a blonde for the past five years. When I went dark again, some young girl screamed at me in a nail salon in Beverly Hills, “I fucking love you!” And I looked up and she said, “You’re NOT Winona Ryder!” I never said I was.

One time at a battle of the bands in 10th grade, I arrived in my awesome crushed velvet red baby doll dress and doc marten shoes and some nerd asked me out. I wasn’t judging him. He was cute. But I knew I wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend and to mess with me was futile, so I said, “No thanks.” And he turned into a monster and yelled, “You are not Winona Ryder you know.”

I appreciate people reminding me that I am not her. I almost went to her trial for her a few years ago. Boy, would have had an unnecessary amount of community service if I hadn’t.

Winona and people that sort of remind you of her, seems to bring up anger in people. If that guy wanted to say, “Funny you sort of remind me of RW, and you almost stole” That would be okay. But to sort of put the onus on me, like, at age 31 I’m walking around Hollywood no less, the city she lives in, as if that’s not embarrassing enough, trying to impersonate her. Eww. Do I wish I had good sedatives and a designer bag? Of course. But that’s as far as my wanting her life or to be her goes.


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