Confessions of a Jilted Bond Girl

Not much happens for me once the opening credits crash in like a testosterone-fueled battering ram. Just when you think you’re having a nice moment, a nice romantic and carefree moment – WHAM! Music, lights, gunfire, stylized blood! I find it barbaric. They call it cinema.

I languish, alone and unwanted, upon the same blasted beach that I started out on for the rest of the film. I literally have no idea where the narrative has gone. Most likely somewhere ridiculous. Nobody bothers to tell me. I’ve served my purpose. Apparently, I’m supposed to be grateful I wasn’t killed off.

Load of good that did me. What’s the point of being “saved” in one of these things? I’ve been discarded like a piece of trash. Would’ve been better to have died tragically. Things like that look good on a girl’s resume.

The thing that bothers me, really bothers me, is James. He was all full of smiles and cheesy pick-up lines when we first met , but it was kind of endearing in a dorky sort of way. I could feel the narrative focusing in on us, and, believe me, I loved the attention.

So we’re walking along the beach, holding hands and being all romantic, and everything seems just dandy. I’m settling in for a nice meaty role in a wondrously whimsical and emotionally wrought love story.

In retrospect, the AK-47s should have tipped me off, but you know how it is with love. Or infatuation. Or whatever.

The gunfire was loud and obnoxious and dumb. James went dashing about like an excited bumblebee, pulling weapons from his swim trunks, suddenly playing the part of a giddy, war-mongering magician. I just stood there, stupefied, wondering when “Romeo and Juliet” had collided with “The Terminator”.

James shouted a lot then, silly stuff that I largely ignored. Something about getting on the ground and putting on a vest. Why would I want to put on a vest? It was summer. We were on a beach.

At some point, we got into a car. After what I assume was a car chase of a quite disturbing nature, he dropped me off at, get this, the exact same beach we had left from. He’s a clever one, our James.

And then he was gone.

I could instantly feel the warm glow of the narrative shifting away from me. Now he’s off cavorting with bad guys and ordering fancy martinis, while I’m stuck on this god-forsaken stretch of sand.

I tried to get out, believe me. They tell you it’s “forbidden” at Character School, but when you get sucked into a dud role like this, you’ll try anything.

Nothing worked. I’m in an isolated bubble of cinema existence. My only escape would be the return of the narrative, and I’m not holding my breath.

Today (which is a relative term that means little in a place where the sun is always shining), a card came in the mail. I was initially excited. I thought that maybe things were looking up for Pretty Girl on Beach.

It was from James. Apparently, today is my birthday.

The card has an absurd and anatomically incorrect cartoon tiger on the front. His speech bubble says: “Birthdays are grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat!”

Isn’t this a rip-off from a cereal company? I’m really not sure. It’s been awhile since I was a character who came into contact with cereal boxes.

There is a brief, hand-written message inside:

“Pretty Girl on Beach: Help! Problem in plotting! Please contact cinema authorities! I need immediate assistance! Tell them that I am STUCK in the 27th sequel without a way to rescue the girl or escape the bad guys! Please Pretty Girl on Beach – HELP ME! They’re going to KILL me, for real!!!!”

This seems pretty typical of James.

I crumple up the card and toss it into the ocean.

I adjust my sunglasses. The sun is blazing beautifully up above, which is no surprise, but for the first time I begin to actually enjoy it.

I smooth out my towel and lie down for another hour or two or three of sun-tanning.

There are worse places to be.