2011 is here, and instead of making flimsy resolutions that won't last a week, I've decided to lay out a 5 year plan for myself. Here's what I envision:
2011:
I will become "shift lead" at my place of employment. Am admired by coworkers and tons of new friends for achieving this feat. Will be on a first name basis with all of the high profile celebrities that come in. Within the first few months of the year, Jake Gyllenhaal and Taylor Swift will come in. I will mumble a gentle dig at him for dating a girl barely out of her teens and he will duck his head and blush. I will be gracious to his gal pal, but make confident eye contact with Jake the entire time. As he leaves, he will slip me a note. "You're unlike any other girl I've met," it will read. I will sigh and roll my eyes, going back to my work as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
A week later, Jake will return - alone this time. We quickly become a couple after he makes it clear that he only dated Taylor for publicity. I will shake my head knowingly - it will become a running joke between he and I, his love for tweens.
We spend a blissful summer at his walk-up in Manhattan before returning to LA in the fall. I lament about returning to the drudgery of customer service, and he begs me to let him care for me. I agree, feigning the appropriate amount of reluctance. We end the year cozied up in front of a fire in Paris.
2012:
Jake is on location in Italy, filming Prince of Persia 3 (which I have advised him against but hey, it's a paycheck). I am holed up in a 5 star hotel room, blogging lazily about my new life. On his lunch break, Jake comes to see me, as he always does. With him, he brings several award winning screenwriters. While I have always kept my love of writing to myself (I wouldn't want to outshine my beloved), Jake seems to sense my talent. He has set up meetings. Within a half hour, I have 3 outlines. After a few phone calls, I have an offer from a studio. I reward Jake with a bowl of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, fresh from the microwave. They're his favorite.
2013:
One of my screenplays has been purchased, and two are being fought over by different studios. I am the most sought after female screenwriter since Diablo Cody. I've actually heard that she's been talking shit about me, but I don't care. Jake and I are back in LA, dealing with all of my meetings with various bigwigs. While my career is flourishing, Jake is in a bit of a rut. I suggest that he look for more dramatic roles, with costars like Penn, Clooney, and Swank. He'd prefer another rom-com with Anne Hathaway. This is a point of contention for us, as I've never liked her and find their friendship to be a cover for a secret flirtation. I make sure to wear my best bra whenever she comes to dinner.
At the end of another glorious summer, Jake finally agrees to do a political drama with George Clooney and Matt Damon. I am confident that my beau will win the respect of The Academy with this role, although he is reluctant because filming takes place in Dubai and I cannot join him due to my new career. As he departs for the airport, I assure him once more that he can trust me completely and that I would never cheat on him. Jake can be a bit needy at times, but I love that about him.
2014:
After Jake's breakthrough role in the Clooney film, we spend the holidays with George, Brad, and Angelina in Italy. George's Lake Como estate is everything I'd hoped it to be, and we have a marvelous time. Oddly enough, Angie thinks I am hysterically witty, and we spend most of the evening in stitches over some thing or another. Her and Brad's children run around us as we lounge, punctuating the comfortable silence with fits of giggles.
Jake seems happy, but as we get ready for bed that night, I notice him brooding. When I ask him, he confesses that he thinks these people, while lovely, are too old for us. I bristle. Are you calling me immature? I ask. He says that he's not; that he misses our old life, our old friends. I begin to pace around the luxurious guest room, listing off reasons why this life is a better choice, a better fit. As my voice gets louder, I don't immediately notice that he's left the room. When I look up, Angie is standing in the doorway, holding her newborn adopted Chilean daughter, asking me in hushed tones to please keep it down. I am mortified.
2015:
Jake and I are completely avoiding each other after the Lake Como fiasco. A few magazines get wind of some sort of "blow up" at Clooney's estate, but it dies down after no one can cite any reliable sources. My writing career slows down as rumors of my alleged "ball busting" spread. I manage to lock down a deal for my second screenplay, a fluffy romantic comedy I wrote for Jake to make up for the Clooney film I forced him into that, in the end, did not result in an Academy Award nomination. But now that Jake isn't returning my calls, the script's future is in jeopardy. The casting director and I begin frantically looking for a replacement. Tobey? Leo? Ryan? Other Ryan? No, there is no one right for this part other than Jake. As a last resort, I reach out to Anne Hathaway to see if she can get him a message. When I ring her home number, a man answers sleepily. Jake.
I pull out of the deal with the studio, citing a conflict of interest. They don't want to hear my sob story, and demand their payment back. They have already purchased the rights to my screenplay, you see. My hands are tied. I pay them back and book a one way ticket back to Buffalo.
2016:
Back at home, I begin to turn back into my old self. I mourn the loss of my perfect relationship that I single-handedly sabotaged. My old friends cannot get over the fact that I stayed at Clooney's house. I smirk at first, but then remember my pity party and go back to intermittent weeping. No one really sympathizes, as I have still made quite a bit of money off of the two screenplays I sold. I decide to go try and work things out in LA.
Once I am back, the cover of US Weekly hits me. Anne is pregnant. I don't have to look at the accompanying name to know who the father is. Jake always wanted kids. I find myself wandering back towards my old job at the cafe. As I walk in, I am greeted by familiar smells and welcoming smiles.
A few months later, I have quit the "Hollywood" game and am quietly writing a novel under a pen name. I am back to work at the cafe - I need to feel normal again. Right before the holidays, Ryan Gosling walks in with a girl who can't pronounce "espresso" correctly. I mumble something under my breath to Ryan about there being no "x" in espresso. Our eyes meet...
