James Franco Didn't Really Cut His Arm Off

Be forewarned, as there are A LOT of asterisks. Even for me.

Three nights ago as I stood around a table with good friends and watched the $30 pool go to the chick* next me in what was a highly contentious game of Left Right Left even though Iwasthisclosetowinningit, I realized that in addition to the stress I've endured due to the exponentially growing number of remote controls on the living room coffee table that require at least an intermediate knowledge of algorithms and genomic sequencing, this has been an extraordinarily awful year for me.

I've dealt with a broken heart, a totaled car,** a sick mother,*** a sick dog,**** and a suspiciously official looking written notice that I am IN FACT "geographically challenging to date."*****

Adding insult to injury: in what was a misdirected attempt to indulge my new crush on James Franco,****** I went to the theater to see 127 Hours last week. I sat there and watched James Franco ponder cutting off his arm for nearly 90 excruciating minutes before I sat there and watched James Franco end the pondering. Excruciatingly.

Now, I admit the following: I am aware of the fact that 127 Hours is a mere cinematic depiction of someone who is not actually James Franco cutting off his arm. I am also aware of the fact that due to aforementioned fact that James Franco and his arm--as of this writing--are fine.

Still, the horror of it all is messing with me a bit and has threatened the feasibility of my Prince William back-up plan, which was a plan that very much so included James Franco carrying me in his arms (both of them) across the quad at Yale.*******


*G, I'm not really calling you "some chick." It's part of my creative license as a writer. You deserved the 30 bucks. You can buy your sister the pre-cut fruit and Pop Tarts she loves now. I'm happy for you both. Really. I am.

**problematic in more than the most obvious way--since having declared permanent residency in my car last August, I have been using my car's VIN # as my return address for every TOTALLY sane letter I have been writing to Prince William gently urging him to ditch Whatsherrname. When he comes to his senses, I may never know.

***apparently a person can have her stomach pumped through her nose for at least seven days in a row. Modern medicine never ceases...

****apparently it costs just as much to treat a dog that has nothing wrong with it as it does to treat a dog that actually does

*****Uh, duh. (And because I know you are soooo wondering--this astute observation was not made by an heir to any throne).

******The real tragedy regarding James Franco this year is that he wrote a book. Oh, that's great, you say? Not so quick. Why? Because here is a man who is tall, dark, and handsome. Here is a man who is also pursuing a doctorate in English. And! And! Now this man has recently penned a fictional homage to his youth in his novel Palo Alto. These last two facts strongly suggest that James Franco can read and knows the difference between a colon and a semi-colon. I did not know such a creature existed! Alas, I'm perhaps ruined forever now. The pool of datable men shrinks and my standards go up. A winning strategy, I'm sure.

*******A similar thing happened to me several years ago with Leonardo DiCaprio, in that I couldn't quite shake off the scene of him drowning in the frigid Atlantic waters in Titanic. Even to this day I always feel a little burst of relief and joy when he pops up in a new film.^

^I realize this statement gives a particular impression about my intelligence level. Like, whatev.