I would be the worst movie character ever.

Why?

Because I don't have a photographic memory like every other film character ever made has supposedly been blessed with.

I'd be in the film and I'd get to a nondescript pay phone at exactly 12:00PM and then when it rang I would answer and the kidnapper would be like:

'Bring the money to 7645 on the corner of Stanton and Prince Alfred Avenue, apartment 45 at 2:30 sharp - CLICK.'

And he'd hang up the phone! 

Come again?

The next scene would be me walking back to the parents house just shrugging, going:

'Sorry. He said something like 76 maybe something 7695 or something? It was like Prince Stanton avenue? Is that a thing? I don't know. I literally have no idea to be honest. He just said the address, and then he hung up. His voice was really deep and scratchy and it was hard to understand. I didn't have a pen, I didn't write it down. He didn't even give me a chance to repeat it. I'm sorry, I just no good with names and stuff like that, you know? So your son is most likely dead. I offer you my condolences but in all honesty I don't think any of this is my fault. The kidnappers should have been more considerate.'

In films you never here some crime informant or a kidnapper or double crossing spy phone the main character and be like:

'Meet me at 37 Pantion Drive at exactly midnight tonight....

.....


....that's 37. Three-Seven, right? Pantion Drive, P for Peter, A for Andrew, N for Nelly........T.....ah.... I for Igloo.....um......O.....then just N for Nelly again.

Okay? Got it? Great, yeah midnight, Twelve AM. Tonight. Okay. Bye.'

It takes away from the dark dreary effect of an anonymous caller if you're specific about dates and times.

Another thing in films I can't wrap my stupid brain around are detective mysteries where the main protagonist finds clues within a complex network of contradicting dates.

07-10-1947 2:00PM

Like some dude will be hunched over this manilla folder explaining to his side kick:

'You see this picture? This was taken on Monday, February 17, 1942. But over here is the same signature dated March 3rd, 1939. Oldman said that he was at the scene of the crime on the morning of Tuesday February 5th, 1940. This can only mean that on the 13th when Oldman went missing that....'

By now, I'm squinting at the screen saying thinking what the fuck is going on. I have no idea what sort of implications these dates have. I still have to sing the alphabet song to remember what letter comes after what, I don't know months and dates and shit like that.

I can picture like one month and then tell you what month is directly after it and maybe on a good day I could tell you the one that comes before it but don't bother fucking asking me if how many days it has because I have no fucking clue.

To this day, I honestly have no idea of the order of months from like August to December. Like of course, I'm not that dumb I can sit down and think about it, but it's literally something I need to think about. It's like a Rebecca Black song.

I think it's a reflection of my commitment as a child, like I just briefly learned the months up until my birthday and then just thought, fuck it, the rest of the year will come to me when I need them - December is the Christmas one, that's all I need to know.