from www.misplacedmovie.com: For me, it usually happens in Costco. I’ll be cruising the over-sized aisles with my over-sized cart, nibbling on a free sample, when it hits me like a forty pound bag of flour. Tucked in between towers built of dried goods, I’ll pause mid-shop with the realization that I’m just some mom, ya know? That for all my delusions of artistic grandeur, for all my airs, I’m here, like everyone else, buying my toilet paper in bulk. I call it my Emily Dickinson malaise, this fear of trading my artistic soul for sensibility, even as I mock myself for thinking something so pretentious. Each time it happens, I ask myself, is this it? Is this the final death of the tiny seed of punk rock I’ve preserved through kids and marriage and mortgages? Have I finally gone… Normal? I’m a writer, you see. I experience and create, I’m not just some mouth-breathing consumer, my whole goddamn life is a canvas. I’ve smirked my way through seven years of PTA meetings, believing my writing somehow makes me different, that I’m unique, that unlike all these other poor sods, I won’t be sucked into the swamp of routine, that my life will always be wild and untamed and counter-culture. I want to be like Hunter S. Thompson, with a diaper bag. But there are chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs in my cart. I haven’t written in a week because the kids are home for summer break, and my days have been a blur of swim lessons and sleepovers. I fell asleep watching Antiques Roadshow last night. I have rooms full of unsorted laundry, missing baseboards, dead houseplants, and a stained sofa that smells like jelly and old socks. That’s not counter-culture, that’s just lazy. Maybe I’m not an artist. Maybe, no, let’s be honest, probably, I’m just a bum. When I saw Misplaced, it was like Greg Lastrapes walked up to me in Costco, took me by the hand, and led me out of the aisles into the sun. He is my Moses. He gets me. He understands my plight, he knows the mix of embarrassment and arrogance that goes into wanting to create art. The feeling that I should offer an apology for thinking I have something to contribute, even as I scream into the void for acknowledgement of my perceived talent. Be warned that if Greg ever decides to start a Manson-esque cult, I will be the first to shave my head and move to the desert for him. Misplaced is as scripture to the struggling artist, and I shall live by its most sacred commandment for all my deviant days: Go forth and fucketh twenty-five year olds. Praise Greg. Amen.
 Emma Arnold http://fearlessmfers.blogspot.com/