Tag Archives: high fidelity

Manic Pixie Dreamgirl; or, the Post-Postmodern Prometheus

She came to life on a cold, flat slab, a thin slice of pulped plant flesh cut down to 8.5×11 inches and college-ruled with blue lines and pink borders on the edge. Her master made her through an ungodly alchemy of other fictional females, the edges of their words stitched together like skin. Her fingers came from Garden State; her left leg from Elizabethtown, while her right came from The Perks of Being A Wallflower; her luscious lips were culled from High Fidelity‘s Charlie; her fashion sense was stolen from one Holly Golightly; and her voice was ripped straight from the throat of Zoe Deschanel herself.

In short, she was perfect. So he flipped the switch and brought the page to life — his beautiful, monstrous bride, unnaturally thrust into reality and forced  to do his bidding. He cackled wildly as the little black inkjets spit her out upon the page in all her bubbling two-dimensional glory. “Arise!” he screamed, “Arise!” as the thunder clapped behind him, its cavernous boom breathing life into his creation.

When her eyes sprung open, he saw that she had a heterochromia — one green eye, one brown, a subtle quirk that brought her unrealisticness to life. She looked at him with those sparkling, mismatched eyes and said, “Where am I?”

“New Jersey,” he replied. “Or, maybe LA, I don’t know, I haven’t really decided yet. Williamsburg? That’s kind of in the middle, right?”

“Williamsburg, wow! I’ve never been to New York City,” she said as she sat up on the table and peered around his office laboratory. She saw posters of indie rock bands tacked up to the walls, and fraying composition notebooks building wood piles in the corners by the sagging full-size mattress that he pretended was a bed. “Do you have any tea? I could really use some organic honey chamomile with ginger, one Stevia and maybe just a splash of almond milk. Have you heard the new Arcade Fire record? I haven’t, I don’t listen to music released after 1973. Oh! Let’s go dancing! I’ve never danced before. Is there weather outside? It should definitely be raining, unless it’s sunny, which is also good, too. Do you have some kind of whimsical pet name I should call you?”

“Jesus Christ, shut up already,” he said.

“But…I don’t know your name,” she said with a sparkle in her smile.

“You can call me ‘Master’,” he said. “But just don’t talk right now. That’s not what I made you for.”

“What do you mean? A free spirit can’t be made like this. I’m independent, a free woman. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Well, yes, but you’re not supposed to…I don’t know, want things. You shouldn’t have like, opinions or whatever. Jesus Christ!” He crumpled up the paper, crushed it smaller, smaller still, until it turned into a little ball that fit inside his fist, then he threw it at the trash can and stomped out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him for dramatic effect.

But what he didn’t realize was that it was already too late. He had already let his creation out into the world. In all her quirky wonder, in all her hypomanic majesty. And it was a world that she could never understand, a system of rules that she could never truly fit inside. So she grabbed the nearest hoodie, crawled out his bedroom window, leaving the curtains flapping behind her in the evening breeze, and she escaped, setting out to find a place where she could spread her manic pixie madness and be free.

Sonic Death Monkey

I found this slip of paper tucked between the pages in my personal copy of High Fidelity, which is especially strange because it’s not in my handwriting, and I don’t think I’ve ever lent my copy out for anyone to borrow

There’s something about you that
The way your eyes light up
When you
She has the ability to

I can’t keep holding onto your highs
when your lows are crushing me
You yo-yo me AROUND like a


I need to be strong, I know
That is there
I DELETED your number but
I know I’m going to want it
She will make you BIPOLAR
She is so insecure
I deserve your highs not
your lows.
I can’t keep blaming myself
for your fuck ups.

She has the ability to
bring you so high one
moment, CRUSH YOU, then bring
you back 15 minutes later

She’s so insecure, will GO
to most nonchalant

rational behavior…

“I’m tired”, she says in her usual manner.

I’m tired too, so rather than asking her what might be inflicting this malaise I merely stir my coffee and search the table for another cream.  This quest isn’t necessary; the coffee is already a nice tan color yet it seems a much better use of my time than listening to her.  This will cause problems however, so I decide to be a slightly better boyfriend.

“Why are you tired?”

There is ever so slight of a pause as her left eyebrow raises.

“I was wondering how long you were going to take to ask me.  Really Connor, I question how much you care sometimes.” She begins to get that look in her eye.

It’s not really a stare, or a gaze, her eyes don’t glaze over and there is no real noticeable difference to anyone who hasn’t been in this kind of relationship. She keeps it a secret to the general public.  My recommendation, don’t date her…or anyone if you’re smart.  It’s better just to pick someone out of the crowd and ask them to marry you.  While this might seem ludicrous to the normal social customs, let me explain my reasons for this approach:

1.     It seems romantic, so at least your new bride or groom (if things pan out) will think you’re sweet and slightly crazed, but anyone who wants to get married is usually member of both those catagories.

2.     You’re chance of picking someone who is compatible to you is slim, but you have about the same odds in a normal dating situation.  At least you won’t have to worry about them changing; since you didn’t know them before your impromptu proposal.

3.     You have picked them solely on looks, so again this isn’t much different than a normal bar outing.  However, instead of a one night stand, you’ve picked up an old lady to worry about how much time you’re spending at the bar.


I’ve stopped listening again.  I even seem to have abandoned the search for more cream, considering that there were only three possible places for it to hide.  I look up from my coffee, which I have decided is more interesting than my girlfriend at the moment.  She looks pissed…this is understandable though.  I can’t really blame her, and then I notice something that I didn’t before.  As I pick up my cup to receive some reassurance from my caffeinated friend, I am confronted by the fact that my suspicions are correct, I’m about to be dumped.

Now average folk about to lose their girlfriend of three years might be about to cry, or wishing that they had the power to turn back time, or better yet wishing that this diner served alcohol through an IV.  I ,however, have decided to take a much better approach.  Just as the words escape her lips, just as I hear;

“I think it’d be better if we separated, found ourselves a little more first”

I do the only reasonable thing I can think of…I pour my coffee into my lap.