Don’t Hate The Screenplayer, Hate The Game.

I really think that should be an official title: Screenplayer. It should be on t-shirts, in bold monochromatic colourings and using a simple yet readable font so that every person everywhere will easily be able to identify the wearer as such. Screenplayer…or optionally spelt “Screenplaya”, you know if you’re a douchebag and rely solely on your ‘swag’ to get anywhere in life (ironically making you more like a certain jolly bloke camping by a billabong rather than any sort of reputable badass). Scratch that last part actually. If you spell it with an ‘a’ you ought to be put to death in act of humanitarianism (which on the subject of words should be used to describe cannibals).

But on a serious note (loljks) we are gathered here today so that I can bitch and moan about screenplaying (it’s a thing). As previously mentioned I am trying to transform myself from a regular ‘player’ into a fully-fledged, and capitalised, ‘Screenplayer’. However…

However: usually followed by a contradictory statement or gripe about said topic. Example- She is truly beautiful…however her voice sounds like a dying beluga whale.

However I am ready to perform extreme acts in my frustration at not being able to come up with a single idea for the screenplay I have to write for mah assignment(20-30 minutes in length with a pitch). I’ve had lots of ideas. Too many. It’s starting to look like a dance-floor full of dicks in my brain (and no not like that you weird person…but actually a dance-floor full of peni doing the bus-stop…penis is like the word octopus right?). Anyways the problem is I can’t focus on one single idea long enough to create something worthwhile or if I can I find that in a matter of hours it slowly gestates and mutates into a bizarre amalgamation of five or six ideas and that the concept has become bastardized beyond recognition.

The other major thorn in my side is that I have begun to second guess my ideas, in that they sit there for so long that I go from being enraptured by their nice qualities to only noticing the faint moustache on the upper lip or that their breasts are uneven…wait what? GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

Basically its a horrible vortex of self-doubt and blurred focus that is slowly dragging me into it’s octopus like grip of death (so many cephalopod references today…) and the only way to get out is to slam the contents of my brain onto a suitable surface and examine the residue left behind. In English: I’m gonna put shit on here that I been thinking of and then see what sticks (on a side note my eyes are feeling painfully aware of the fakt that they are eyes and it’s making them hurt…maybe I need glasses).

So before I become distracted by something else nearby I am going to briefly spit out the three ideas currently wrestling for breathing space in my head. Some of them aren’t very coherent (one is really just a title and atmospheric setting) and all of them need expanding but I feel that if I commit them to a concrete form then perhaps I will be able to create something worthwhile. If you have anything you would like to say on the matter…well do it…unless it’s racist. Then go somewhere else undesirable person!

The Scattershot Ideas of Tom Reed Screenplayer In Training…

1. It’s called Murk. It’s about bad people doing bad things and there will lots of violence and blood. Probably some cross-dressing hitmen too…because they’re interesting.

2. It’s called Irving & Frank. Young Irving Mars is a bit of a shit of a kid, and as a result gets in a bit of a scrape and finds himself working at an aged care home as a part of his community service. Here he meets an elderly man who is convinced his is actually Frank Sinatra and has been placed in here by the Russian mob as payback for screwing the boss’s wife. “Frank” lives in a fantasy world, but is happy, so Irving goes along with it…much to annoyance of the nursing home staff. These fantasy sequences involve “Frank” performing at a casino, trying to fight off the Russians, avoiding his ex-wife Ava and teaching Irving not to be such a prick.

3. It’s called Squidd. It follows the misadventures of Tiffany Squidd, a terrible private eye who is nearly killed by a truck…prompting a chance encounter with the voodoo lord of the dead: Baron Samedi. Samedi grants Squidd supernatural abilities and voodoo powers…at the cost of his soul and becoming the Baron’s errand-boy.

Already I’m feeling better…kind of like inducing vomiting… WHY AM I SAYING THESE THINGS!? Anyway I ought to get back to writing about philosophy (BLAH) and limit my procrastination to reading funny things on the internet (isn’t that why it was invented?). If you found this informative than I want to know what drugs you’re on and whether I can have some…if you thought this poorly written drivel…why did you read the whole thing?

That’s all I have to say today…except that some bitch is eating Maccas in the library and there are several signs saying don’t do that. May have to shiv her with my Batman USB (yes that’s a thing too). Peace and lumps Treed.

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Filed under Creative Catharsis, Life & Times Of

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