Its amazing what procrastination can do to a person. I was intent on writing something I very much need to write for an audition tomorrow. Its a fun little skit that I've already giggled at the concept of several times and I am honestly looking forward to doing it. Yet the mere thought of having to write it up in preparation drove me instead to sway hugely off the beaten track. Starting with writing several other more boring things I should be doing, I then took a huge tangent into spending 45 minutes giving captions to all the pictures that will soon be on my updated website. No one will ever click this pictures to discover they have captions but that doesn't matter. Intricately pretending each one was another disguise used in my missions as a top crime fighter, I laboured over every one, knowing full well it wasn't the work I was meant to be doing. I then cooked a ratatouille. I'm constantly pleased that these sorts of occupations surround me otherwise my need to divert from what I should be doing could lead me to fight lions or climb tower blocks. Luckily as it is, I just sauteed a few onions. I will never saute onions when I should be doing that. In fact often knowing I should cook up a dish will cause an Edinburgh show to be written. Actually that's not true. Nothing causes an Edinburgh show to be written except the sheer terror of heading up to the festival for a month with a whole ounce of nothing. Imagine that dream you've had. No not the one where you're dancing naked around a clay scuplture of Philip Schofield while a hippo screams at you. The one where you're doing the school play and you forget all your lines? Edinburgh inflicts the same fear in me. However walking infront of a casting director on Tuesday doesn't appear to have the same effect.
Ratatouille made, captions done, I struggled to find something else to do. Then, after a brief discussion with Tom, I decided I wanted to invite Emily Browning to our flat. There are a number of reasons for this. Firstly I think her cute pixie faced self is gorgeous and I'd like one. I don't know where you get one from but I'd like one. If anyone wants to get me one for my next birthday, well that's ages away so why not just get me one as a nice gesture. I do lots of stuff for you so its only fair. Bloody take take take with you isn't it? Sigh. Secondly, we have a nice flat and it wouldn't seem at all unreasonable for Emily to want to come and hang out. We have good banter, some particularly nice biscuits for cheese and an Xbox. If that can't lure the sexy pixie or sexie/pexy as I like to call her, then nothing will. Now of course the wonders of Twitter are such that you can tweet whoever you like should you either be stupid or brave enough. I am definitely the former and boredom increases this stupidity by at least 20%, so I began with sending this:
I thought the multiple offers of tea would intrigue her no doubt. I should've said we have a few bags of chilli and mint but Twitters character limitation meant I just had to get the necessities in. After sending this I quickly realised that it really is that easy to harass celebrities across this form of social network and subsequently fired off several to Natalie Portman, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Zooey Deschanel who I lured with my promise of owning an R2PotaToo, and then took a u-turn and invited Bootsy Collins. Well, why not? If that many lovely ladies are going to be partying at my house, we'll need some funk no? I tried to lure him with our offer of Nesquik and squash. Suddenly it all became too much fun and ridiculous tweets were fired off offering Lady Gaga some of our ratatouille and Danny Devito wine but only if Tom can reach the wine glasses as neither me or Danny are tall enough. I had grand delusions of all of them turning up with board games and booze, for Heat magazine to be banging on the windows while the weird man at Flat 1 complained about the noise Bill Murray was making in the garden. Then I panicked and realised we hadn't hoovered.
There was no need for panic though, as no one responded. I became glum. I had avoided doing my character skit for nothing but slight RSI in my right hand. Defeated I contemplated giving up. Then this happened:
He has since refused as he didn't realise its in the UK, but that doesn't matter. Technically I had a chat with Will Arnett. This, my friends, is merely the beginning of my new found lifestyle as an it dude. That's not someone who works in IT. I wouldn't stop till I had more responses from more people, and fired off tweets to Snoop Dogg, P Diddy and Will.I.Am despite the fact I think he's a bellend. I had become shallow and stopped even inviting people I wanted to hang out with. I just became fame hungry. I even tweeted Jedward on account of how easy it would be to push them over and take photos. Then it dawned on me that this is exactly how people become weird stalkers and get done for harassment, so I stopped. And no once else but Will replied. I'm obviously not as popular as I thought.
The rush of @reply promise from someone like Portman died down and procrastination continued to drive me out of my comfort zone until I was watching the Super Bowl despite having absolutely no clue just what was happening at any single point, and finding it impossible to not sing ABBA's 'Take A Chance' everytime someone said Tiki Barber (say it several times in a row and you'll see what I mean). I'm still holding out hope for responses though. Some of those celebs don't check Twitter for days do they? I'll play it cool for now, and give everyone a few more days before I tweet them all saying they are rude for not RSVPing. Then they'll reply. Oh yes. Then they'll reply.