BY
ACTOR
My greatest influence and North Star of paranoia is my mother. She was raised in a different era, where you used your wits at all times and suspected that everyone was about to kidnap you. She instilled those beliefs in me from childhood, and, as silly as it sounds, they really came in handy at the right moments. Please enjoy this (only slightly exaggerated) crash course in expecting the worst, from one of the best.
You’re running to catch your plane and your passport falls out of your purse. A kidnapper picks it up and uses your social security number to steal your identity. He takes all your money, leaving you penniless and destitute. You move back home. I knew you would do that; you don’t want me to have a life. The kidnapper finds out where you are because money and identities are never enough for him. He catches you on the one night I go out to have fun for a change.
KIDNAPPED.
You are out to dinner pretending not to be lactose intolerant. Midway through dessert you run to the restroom and start inhaling your crazy-lady essential oils in an effort to not barf in a public place. Luckily for the nearest kidnapper, you’re too weak from dairy to fight him off when he throws a net over you at the valet.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re in Canada. You run out of eye drops and walk to a Shoppers Drug Mart. Your perfume wafts on the breeze into the waiting nostrils of a random weirdo. Feelings of kidnappiness that have been lying dormant inside of him suddenly spark to life.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re driving. You get lost. You run out of gas. You try to call me, but I’m on the phone with one of my other children for once. Your phone dies. Someone pulls up in a creepy van. You expect that they’re about to help you. Instead:
KIDNAPPED.
You get into an elevator with a strange man. You accidentally tell him where you live. He writes it down in his abduction notebook after you’re gone. Tomorrow he strikes.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re at a party. You lock eyes with an attractive stranger. He turns out to be a kidnapper, which doesn’t surprise me. You only date sociopaths.
KIDNAPPED.
Need I say more?
KIDNAPPED.
You are buying quinoa and agave syrup. You are dressed somewhat provocatively. You carry your groceries to your car. A kidnapper walks by. He looks a little bit like Javier Bardem and you wave at him, because you have no self control.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re at IKEA, perusing some quality Swedish products. You stop in the lighting department and become distracted, leaving yourself vulnerable to kidnapping. I don’t know how many times I’ve said it: I have plenty of lamps for you. But you do everything the hard way, so guess what?
KIDNAPPED.
You go for a jog on the beach, probably forgetting to wear sunscreen, knowing you. You’re listening to music which prevents you from hearing the sound of approaching kidnappers. They tackle you. You flail helplessly and scream at the other people on the beach for help. They look around for cameras, assuming you’re filming a scene. It’s your own fault; this is the career you chose.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re hurrying down the steps of an art museum, carrying lots of thoughtful presents for me. Just kidding, you don’t think about anyone but yourself. You bump into a passer-by and drop whatever you’re carrying. The passer-by stops to assist you, you say thanks and ask if there’s anything you can do to repay them. Yes, you can let me kidnap you, they say. You assume they’re kidding and agree. You know what happens when you assume.
KIDNAPPED.
You set up a lemonade stand on the corner because you spent all your money on that fancy bathtub. A car pulls up, driven by a kidnapper. He’s thirsty for more than beverages…He’s thirsty for kidnapping you.
KIDNAPPED.
You somehow befriend John Cleese. He is an exception to the moustache kidnapper rule and you therefore think moustaches are harmless. With a false sense of moustache security you go about your life until you trust the wrong moustache.
KIDNAPPED.
It’s night. You go outside. Are you out of your mind?
KIDNAPPED.
You stop into an open house because you like judging people’s decor, just like your father. The real-estate agent also happens to be the Zodiac Killer and he locks the door behind you while you ask about backsplashes. Literally ANYONE old could be the Zodiac Killer: use your head.
KIDNAPPED.
You park your car in a parking garage. As you walk to the elevator, you hear footsteps behind you. It’s a kidnapper. You wrack your brain for the moves they taught us in the mother/daughter self-defence class we took in Malibu that one time. But you didn’t take it seriously, did you? You are stubborn and nobody can tell you anything.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re minding your own business when the big one hits. You forget all earthquake protocol and run into the nearest building as the ground splits open beneath you and swallows you up. There’s a network of underground-mole-people-kidnappers living directly beneath the earth’s surface and you can guess how that ends.
KIDNAPPED.
You go to a Renaissance faire with your friends to wear costumes and take selfies with turkey legs, which you could easily do at home. The environment is perfect for an eccentric kidnapper to prey on his victims. One approaches, strumming his lute at you. You make a Confederacy of Dunces joke. He laughs at your wit and intelligence and tells you to check out his other instruments in a nearby tent.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re staying in New York. You ignore my warnings and decide to get on the subway because you think you know everything. The subway is 99% kidnappers, 1% you.
100% KIDNAPPED.
You’re leaving dinner in some random LA neighbourhood. You hail what appears to be a taxi. You get in, give the driver your address and, because you never read the Thomas Guide I bought you when you moved, you think you’re going in the right direction. WRONG. He drives you to his kidnappy lair like in that episode of Luther.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re running errands outdoors, which is already a mistake.
It begins to rain.
You just got bangs so you look around frantically for cover.
A nearby kidnapper offers you his umbrella and a hair dryer.
You ask if he also has a round brush. I told you to leave your hair alone; bangs are always a bad idea.
KIDNAPPED.
You put on a V-neck and walk down the street, like an idiot.
The sight of a female form excites a nearby kidnapper.
KIDNAPPED.
Don’t bother getting married until you’re forty. You’re not going to like it.
You get a cookie lodged in your throat and go to the hospital instead of just letting it work its way out. The X-ray is hilarious and you ask for a copy, because you’re obsessed with yourself. The doctor tells you to take some ibuprofen and relax. I told you never to take that; it ruins your liver. Your liver is barely hanging on by a thread when you bump into a kidnapper in the drugstore. You share stories about your livers and that’s that.
KIDNAPPED.
In an effort to de-stress from having no children, no job and no responsibilities you take a Bikram yoga class. We both know you and your brother have zero heat tolerance, and you end up vomiting into the waiting cupped hands of the shirtless man next to you. You think because he’s in a yoga class he’s a cool, non-kidnappery sort of guy.
Namistake.
KIDNAPPED.
You’re getting ready for a Halloween party when you look out the window to see a zebra grazing in the yard. Enchanted, you chase it into an abandoned warehouse downtown. Was it a kidnapper dressed as a zebra? You do the math. Oh, wait, you can’t, because your head is a doorknob now.
KIDNAPPED.