Ok, I can't be the only person over 10 years old who has this problem. I sometimes take issue with the fact that certain things in movies can't be real. Why can't I go to PetCo on adoption Saturday and give an ewok a loving home? Nobody's going to stick me in a pod and let me wonder around Pandora? I don't necessarily want to 'volunteer as tribute', but send me to The Capitol so I can make use of that yellow eyeshadow from 10th grade, and let Peeta throw some bread at me. And don't even get me started on how that letter didn't come from Hogwarts. And Mr. Clark Kent, you're not getting out of this either.
Anyways, how completely unfair is it that Lois Lane couldn't mind her business and next thing you know she's shooting through outer space and holding hands with Superman? You know what happens when I stick my nose where it doesn't belong? I get my internet privileges taken away and have to go to bed without dinner. I most certainly am not allowed to hang out in the desert with my two best friends, Henry and Christopher.
But let's focus this bitterness on the real problem here. Steven Spielberg. YOU made me think it wasn't ok to kill mosquitoes, because what if they just crawled their way out of a some tree sap and have some dino blood in them? YOU made me start saving my pennies so I could afford that ticket to Jurassic Park. YOU made me switch my major to Archeology for a hot minute while I was I college. WHERE ARE MY DINOSAURS?!
That one I'm still holding out for. I might not be flying around on my broomstick, or jumping around in a catsuit (yeah, right) anytime soon, but I do plan having my jeep break down and running for my life with the dream machine that is Jeff Goldblum.
I'm off to read lines with Josh Hutcherson. Catch ya on the flip side.