Last night I got to check an item off the bucket list: watching The Breakfast Club in theaters with all of its digitally remastered video and high definition sound. Since I was born about six months after its release, it’s safe to say that I believe this to be an item that would remain on my list forever. I bought tickets to see the 30th Anniversary special release in theaters a few weeks ago and every day I was becoming increasingly excited. Can I just tell you how amazing the songs sound when you are reclined back in leather seats with nachos, popcorn, and Red Vines? The movie is ultimately about understanding and then destroying stereotypes we place on each other and ourselves. What I love about this movie is that these kids got to be their true selves for at least half a day. Come Monday, they would probably go back to living their stereotypes because, as much as we all want to, we just don’t break out of our stereotypes that easily. Maybe we’re afraid? Maybe we don’t know how? The magic in the movie lies in the fact that we really don’t know what will happen when that bell rings in the hallways on Monday morning.
“Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us – in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain… and an athlete… and a basket case… and a princess… and a criminal. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.”
The closing narration to the 1985 cult classic, The Breakfast Club, is one of the most iconic movie endings in history. While the essay was not 1,000 words as Mr. Vernon instructed, we still love everything about it and can totally relate to every syllable. We are all every kid in that movie at some point in our lives, and some of the personas may even overlap. Years after the first time seeing this movie, I found myself thinking this morning the same thing Brian Johnson muttered to himself while picking his nose with a pen attached to his lips: Who am I?
Well, I do agree that we are all of the personas. But in my case, I definitely see more of who I am in Allison Reynolds, the basket case. Keep in mind I am a male and I don’t have “all that black shit under my eyes,” but there are so many similarities between her and I that I HAVE to tell you about so you can make the decision yourselves. (In all actuality I could write about how I am in fact every character in this movie, but I want to talk about Allison today!)
A Nutritionist’s Wet Dream
I can eat. I can eat for days. And I’m not talking broccoli, baked salmon filets, and salad with lots of celery, avocado, and tomatoes. I am talking about Heaven’s delicacies: honey buns, Cheetos, sugary candies like Nerds and Skittles, and enough Coke and Mountain Dew to fill up the Ganges in India. Pretty much anything you can think of that your dentist tells you not to eat, I eat. I have just been blessed with the combined metabolism of Hermes, Hercules, and Karen Carpenter that I don’t put on any weight. So when we see what Allison is eating for lunch you can imagine me standing up to cheer and eat some Cap’n’Crunch alongside her!
Dance It Out
It’s no secret I am always on the move and half the time I am dancing it out. In fact, at work we got FitBits and some of my co-workers and I are in challenges. I am doing so many steps that I have been asked if I am a rickshaw driver or if I have a treadmill in my office. The secret they don’t know? I am always dancing it out around the house (when I am not vegged out on the couch watching Netflix, that is). I break it DOWN! I mean I just shake my stuff like no one’s watching and I don’t give a whaaaaaa! Allison is my dance coach.
Vodka, You Are My Bitch Lover
You can look back at one of my first posts and I detail my love for vodka. What can I say? I’m an empty bottle… er… open book… whatever, you get what I’m saying! Like Allison, I drink so much vodka that when I do, the vodka gets drunk, not me. I slay that bottle of Tito’s quicker than Lindsay Lohan can drop her panties, sleep with the nearest skank trainwreck of a man, and write about him in her Burn Book in the pages after me.
Sex Is My Weapon
This is 2015 and I’m a man. Just throw some naked bodies at me and let the good times roll! Who needs money when it’s all fun and games? $1,000,000? You could just give me a Cadbury Creme Egg or something if you feel like it since Easter is approaching. MENS MENS MENS! GIMME GIMME GIMME! Just kidding. Everything I said above is a lie (except for the Cadbury Creme Egg part… I really do want one of those now…), but I guess that would make me a compulsive liar like Allison instead of a nymphomaniac, right?
Idiots are everywhere. Douchebags will always surround us. You’ve all heard the phrase, “Bye, Felicia!” I am starting a new phrase and a new hashtag: DIE. Felicia. It’s a little more honest. And brutal. And 99.9999% of the time sums up how I truly feel. Bye, Felicia? If I don’t care enough about you to call you by your name, then I sure as hell don’t care if you bye, die, get high, whatever. There comes a time when all you wanna do is shake your head, sigh, and let out the most dramatic exhale as you blow your bangs out of your eyes.
Prince Is King
Some of my fondest memories growing up were sneaking into my brother’s CD cases when he would come home for college. He was born in 1969 to my 1985 and, unknown to him, he was my teacher in the ways of music: Prince, 2 Live Crew, Beastie Boys, Van Halen, you name it! I would walk around second grade singing “Erotic City,” “Cream,” “Sexy Mother Fucker,” or any other crude, yet insanely awesome, Prince song. I knew I was destined for great things when Allison held up the record indicating she, too, was a Prince fanatic. Let’s face it: Prince is King. And boys, girls, trans… the panties will DROP for generations to come (no pun intended) with every eargasm he causes.
Tell It Like It Is; Call a Braid a Braid
People are seeking validation all the time these days. It’s as if people can’t be happy with who they are by themselves anymore. They crave and need people to tell them they are smart, pretty, or whatever. The honest truth? All people aren’t always smart, pretty, or whatever. I may not tell people mean things about them, but I certainly don’t lie to them and say stuff like, “Oh my gosh, but you look so good in that outfit!” No. Bye. I call it like it is. As one of my friends says, “Sometimes you have to call a braid a braid.” Allison is straight up in your face, and I can be, too. It’s the way of life. Or, it should be anyway. Why are we giving people all this false happiness? It just takes away from genuine compliments and praise.
So, hopefully I made my point and convinced you all why I am like Allison. But, as mentioned earlier, I could probably come up with a post similar to this as to why I am EACH member of the Breakfast Club. And who knows? Maybe I will! But until those posts come… DON’T YOU, FORGET ABOUT ME! And you could always take a little BuzzFeed quiz and see who they think you are!