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I heart movies.

My top 5 favourites are:

Breakfast at Tiffany’s–Audrey Hepburn is a goddess-girl. Fact.

Amelie–she’s a total Ooh-la-la magic girl. J’adore.

Ghost World–this film makes me feel just that little bit less alone in the world.

Pretty in Pink–I heart the colour pink. I heart Molly RIngwald. I especially heart her 80s wardrobe, it’s the stuff of retro-girl dreams.

Any movie starring Marilyn Monroe–it would be rude to pick just one, and as I’m not a rude girl, I won’t.

Now, while it maybe true that I have a touch of the drama queen about me, I am absolutely not over-reacting when I say that, right now, if my life were a movie, it would be the straight-to-DVD kind.

It would be called Welcome to Sucksville, there would be absolutely no drama/suspense/romance or even comedy it would lack any amount of drama, the supporting cast would be noticeably absent and there would be nothing, I repeat, nothing that even remotely resembled a plot.

My life is not sweet.

I’m a fourteen-year-old, should-be starlet, with a reflection that rudely disagrees. I mean, seriously, with a name like Lola Love you’d think I’d have an access all areas, VIP insta-pass to the fabulous world of silver screen fabulousness, wouldn’t you? Turns out, not so much. I’m a fourteen-year-old, should-be starlet, with a reflection that rudely disagrees.

Y’see, there are a number of factors standing in the way of my life being a glitter-globe snow-shaker of absolute fabulousity.

These are just a few of the reasons why my name is not currently flashing neon…

1. I don’t have a movie-girl-esque complexion

Starlets have flawless skin.

I do not.

In fact, the only remotely star-like thing about my face right now is that the entire constellation of Orion is very clearly visible on my entire left cheek.

2. I’m awkward looking

Like, really awkward looking Movie stars are picture perfect. I am not. My eyes aren’t symmetrical. No matter how many times my mum tells me I’m making it up, if you look really closely, you can clearly see that my left eye is slightly higher than the right. That’s wrong.

I have freckles that are sometimes visible and sometimes not. They decide.

I have mousy brown hair that never, ever does what it should. It just hangs around my shoulders, all limp and uninterested, like the arm of a super-cute boy who doesn’t actually want to be there.

(Sadly, I am not basing the above statement on my own extensive experience of super-cute boys.

Why is that you ask?

Because I have absolutely no experience with super-cute boys, that’s why.

Yep, you heard me. None. Zilcho. Nothing. Nada. Nuchos.)

Oh wait, there was this one time, it was last September. A super-cute, messy-haired skater boy rode past me in town. He missed his footing and nearly toppled over so, I put my arm out to save him. He didn’t topple, he mumbled something that resembled ‘thanks’, normal life resumed.

Yep, we most deffo shared, what they call in the movies, ‘a moment’.

What’s that?

An ‘accidental, almost arm-brush’ does not a moment make?

That’s rude.

I do however, have A LOT of experience watching movies that include super-cute boys, and FYI, my hair is VERY representative of the uninterested kind.

3. I have a chubby tummy.

I want to live in the olden days, because in the olden days, it was cool to have curves.

For example, Marilyn Monroe, one of my total movie-girl idols, had curves.

Real, woman-like curves.

I also have curves, but apparently, according to the people without curves, curves are no longer cool.

I think this is really rather rude considering I have a bit of a chubby tummy that my mother keeps insisting is puppy fat. It is not. I am just not a stick insect. Fact.

And, as if all that really wasn’t enough for one girl in the world, I’m stuck in Dullsville, the wrong side of Happytown, on my own.

My BFF Angel has been totally kidnapped by her parentals and is on vacay in Europe. Apparently, it’s not enough that my best bud in the entire world is packed off to a super-posh boarding school during term-time, it seems her parentals think it’s more than do-able to kidnap take her away for the entire summer holidays too.

Rude.

And if all that wasn’t bad enough, my aunt Tallullah–uber glam, goddess-like lady, the one person who actually gets me, as in really, really gets me–has gone and moved to my most favourite place in all of the world.

New York City.

I know.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased for her.

(No, really I am. Grr.)

Aunt Tallullah, my lovely Lullah, has an ah-mazing new job that involves her getting all schmoozy woozy with actor-types on a daily basis.

I know.

My aunt is an on-set designer-girl for TV and movies.

I mean, seriously, what’s not to love about that?

And I’m not talking just C-list wannabee actor-types, nope, I’m talking the headline grabbing, pap-toting, turn-up-late-to-work-just-because-I-can A-lister variety.

I know.

But the thing is, with her being all the way over there in Schmooze Ccity, well, it means she’s not here. And here, without lovely Lullah, is like having the hugest, most dee-licious, slice of gooey chocolate cake without lashings and lashings of whipped cream.

Pointless.