I cannot believe that I actually watched I Know Who Killed Me. The shame I feel. Maybe it was the Midol I was stoned on. Or maybe this is the length I will go to in order to avoid the revision on my novel. Writers. We tend to avoid writing every once in a while. It’s all part of the process.
Probably the most disturbing part of this is that I didn’t merely stumble upon the movie playing on cable. No. I caught a glimpse of it on the guide and selected it. I chose it. This was an act of free will. There must be something wrong with me.
For those of you who might be curious, this is not one of those “so bad it’s good” films. It was so bad that I am absolutely amazed that it got funding in the first place. I watched it with my eyebrows together and mouth agape. Fortunately, I was alone. It was so bad that the ending credits went in alphabetical order (and it’s not like the movie boasted an all-star cast). The woman who played “Fat Teena” rolled first. (I suppose it does pay to have a last name that starts with double-A’s.) But I started to surmise that Lindsay might not have been too popular on set if the Bozo-like lipstick application in the strip club scene was any indication. It artistically emphasized the poorly timed and oddly chosen lip injection she had, probably for the “character”. To think of all the little celluloids that died to make that film. Sigh.
Perhaps that premium cable package isn’t such a good idea. I can only pray that if/when my life ever flashes before my eyes, I won’t have to relive that hour and a half.