1, 5, 6, 9, 38?
1:Talk about the first time you watched your favorite movie.
While I have a couple of favorite movies (Star Wars, Robin Hood, etc), I do kind of have to narrow it down to one. And when I do, I generally pick Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The reason why is because not only do I love the idea of the story (love being a process, sometimes painful, but never worthless, always important), but because I remember how i felt when I first watched it.
My parents rented it. I was sitting on our orange-ish recliner in the corner, while my parents sat and watched quietly on the sofa. I remember the effects and camera tricks, the dizzying, bizarre newness of such a non-linear story. I remember the music, specifically the piano suite called Row by Jon Brion as the rain fell off the tin roof and two children played in it; to this day, it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. I remember Jim Carrey saying to Kate Winslet’s character, “I wish I knew you when I was a kid.”
And then I remember how I felt when I realized that, in the very beginning of the movie, we did not see the characters meet for the first time. That  was not their first meeting. What we saw was an aborted and confused rekindling, a sand-trap re-sketching of a moment that had already come and gone. I realized it right when Jim Carry was sitting in the backseat of the car, surrounded by beach sand and grass, and the audio tripped along itself, I saw you talking to someone pretty…
That movie haunts me to this day—that moment haunts me—and the most magical part it, when I rewatch it, I can remember exactly how I felt when I saw it.
"Okay."
"Okay!"
5:Talk about the best birthday you’ve had.
Best birthday…
I don’t know why. This one is stunningly hard to answer. It’s easy to think of the worst birthdays, but the best? Honestly, the best birthdays are the ones where I was surrounded by my family and friends. Small, intimate things. A trip to the zoo, when I had my golden birthday (23 on the 23rd). Cakes brought to me in tupperware, or saved for when I got home from rehearsal.
Or—and I’m laughing thinking about it—the time when my birthday coincided with my college graduation. The parents were so preoccupied with everything else, only my sisters remember to tell me happy birthday. We were driving back from having breakfast when Kirsta turned back and said, “So how does it feel to graduate on your birthday?” I laughed and said, “Pretty cool I guess.”
I hear my mother gasp from up in the front seat—quiet, as though I couldn’t notice her—and then she slowly, carefully turned, and it was like Sixteen Candles as she attempted to casually say, “Happy birthday, honey.”
Family, I guess. Birthday, to me, means family.
6:Talk about the worst birthday you’ve had.
Oh—haha!—there’s the worst birthday!
Well.
There are two.
The first is totally selfish. Some of my best friends got married on my 21st birthday. I was in their wedding party, and they were very apologetic about the date, but I had brushed it off. I had never seriously  thought for one second it would bother me—and it didn’t—up until the actual day dawned. And I just felt this overwhelming sadness. My family wasn’t going to be there. This wasn’t my day.
WHICH IS THE DUMBEST, MOST SELFISH THING EVER. So I sucked it up, and when we got to the salon, the bride had gotten me a birthday card (and a few others had gotten me something cute), and it was all I could do not to cry.
Then, to top that off, there was a lady at that salon who, in trying to pass this mass of bridesmaids sitting on the ground waiting their turn for styles, said, “Excuse me, ladies. I’m so sorry about that—”
She was old; she sounded exactly like my grandmother who had passed away two years before.
Again, I tried not to cry. This time I failed, and trotted off to the bathroom. The rest of the day went well until I got sick at the wedding. And not because I partied hard with my brand new 21. Because it was all too much.
The second birthday that was the worst was 25. I had just found out I was staying in San Antonio another year (which had never been the original plan), I had to go to work on my birthday, and I was just miserable. I got home to an empty house, once again no family, and found I had birthday cards in the mail. From friends, who were better at remembering this kind of stuff than I ever would be—and from family.
I read each one and cried, and then I opened my mother’s, wherein she included a check. My other grandmother, who had died about two years previously had, unbeknownst to me, saved up enough money to give each of her granddaughters a very sizable check. I read the words my mother wrote. I saw the amount. And I have never cried so hard in my life.
9:Talk about little things on your body that you like the most.
One time, in college, I was sitting at a computer in the computer lab, chatting with my friend Esme. Another student named Andrew walked in. We said hello, etc, and then Esme and I continued talking. A short while later, Andrew said very suddenly. “Wow, Liann. Your eyes are so pretty.”
I’m fairly sure I turned ten shades of pink. I said thank you. And I tried to return to the conversation as normal.
No one had ever complimented my eyes before.
Ever since then, I have started to appreciate them. I don’t like them without makeup yet, although as I sat two days ago with my boyfriend, dishelved and sans make-up, he was looking at me. I asked him, “What?” And he said, “Just looking at your pretty eyes.”
He says that a lot. It is still baffling to me.
I like my stomach. I like my breasts. I like my stupid, knobbly knees and my weird innie-outie-at-the-same-time belly button.
I am trying to like more things than I hate.
(38 already answered)
