Dear Pulp Fiction Poster Boys,
I’m sorry to say that I’m not giving you any more chances, we’re breaking up.
I would say ‘It’s not you, it’s me’, but I would be lying. It has everything to do with you and that poster hanging on your wall.
Quite frankly, I hate that poster. I find it hard to understand why you’ve hung it up in pride of place. You’re thrilled with it, but unfortunately, it doesn’t quite make the everlasting impression you think it does.
From the very first moment I entered your room, your eyes darted back and forth from the poster to me, poster to me, like you wanted me to notice. You wanted me to ask questions.
And yes, from the very first moment I entered your room, of course I clocked it. I simply didn’t want to ask questions.
See, I’ve been in this situation before, so I know how it goes… I ask, pointing up at it, “So, you like Pulp Fiction?”
I am met with a lecture on how obsessed you are with the film: “It’s Tarantino’s best, he’s a genius by the way and, oh, before I forget, a little fact for you… Did you know he has a thing for feet?”
YES! EVERYONE KNOWS TARANTINO HAS A THING FOR FEET!
I just find it boring. That poster sits up on your wall as a talking point, you’re always itching to bring it up, thinking you’ll impress girls with your ‘love for independent film’.
It’s become some horrible extension of your personality, you can’t let it go.
You’re so proud of it, but it hangs like you have no pride in it at all. It’s wonky, crumpled and cheap. Stuck up against a woodchip wall, unframed, it’s four corners oily from the Blu Tack behind. Uma Thurman’s features are pixelated and grainy.
I would much rather you had it hung up simply because you think Uma Thurman looks sexy. I would actually have much more respect for you if that was the case. Her cigarette hangs elegantly from her fingers, her black stilettos peering out from behind her. Mate, even I find her hot.
But that’s not the only reason you have it, you have it because you want to bring up the facts, to prove you’re ‘not like the other boys’. You think it gives you substance and individuality, that it wows the girls.
It doesn’t do that.
This is the part where I should encourage you to rip it down, retire it to a crumpled state under the bed. But I’m not going to do that.
I’m asking you to keep it up. Keep it hung pride of place, in plain sight so I can spot it and escape at the first opportunity.
I would much rather that than be surprised by your Pulp Fiction obsession down the line when I have roots and no easy way out.
So, I think that’s about it. I don’t really know what else to say other than goodbye.
Now if you’ll excuse me… “I have to go powder my nose”.
Your Ex xxxx