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a story about Wil Wheaton
I sadly do not watch a lot of The Big Bang Theory, mostly because I forget when it's on, but Mr. Foxx just emailed me this, and OMG IT IS MY LIFE, OKAY.
A few of you already know my infamous Wil Wheaton story, but for those who don't: The year was 1992, and I was attending my second Star Trek convention with my older brother. The guest speaker? WIL EFFING WHEATON, and my tweeny heart was swooning. I could not WAIT to have him sign my 10x12 glossy Wesley Crusher photo, I was going to DIE. But then he showed up looking like equal parts homeless guy, biker gang reject, and heroine addict. His hair was super greasy, and his leather jacket looked like he'd stolen it from Goodwill. Yet I diligently stood in line with my hands shaking in anticipation for his autograph, and when I got to the table, he asked my name. I laughed nervously and spelled it for him, adding at the last minute that Marina Sirtis had misspelled it at the previous convention I'd gone to. He laughed and said, smirking down at the photo as he scrawled his name, "Oh yeah? She was probably too busy talking about her fucking dog!"
Keep in mind, I WAS TWELVE. My face literally looked like :O, and I couldn't think of a response to that. Meanwhile, my brother's face was very >:((((, and he ushered me away immediately after I got my photo back. I didn't even get a thank you. My poor tweeny heart was broken.
SO THAT'S MY WIL WHEATON STORY. Sir, if you're reading this, I am not going to buy your dead grandma excuse. I'll need at LEAST a dead dog thrown in for good measure, you bastard.
A few of you already know my infamous Wil Wheaton story, but for those who don't: The year was 1992, and I was attending my second Star Trek convention with my older brother. The guest speaker? WIL EFFING WHEATON, and my tweeny heart was swooning. I could not WAIT to have him sign my 10x12 glossy Wesley Crusher photo, I was going to DIE. But then he showed up looking like equal parts homeless guy, biker gang reject, and heroine addict. His hair was super greasy, and his leather jacket looked like he'd stolen it from Goodwill. Yet I diligently stood in line with my hands shaking in anticipation for his autograph, and when I got to the table, he asked my name. I laughed nervously and spelled it for him, adding at the last minute that Marina Sirtis had misspelled it at the previous convention I'd gone to. He laughed and said, smirking down at the photo as he scrawled his name, "Oh yeah? She was probably too busy talking about her fucking dog!"
Keep in mind, I WAS TWELVE. My face literally looked like :O, and I couldn't think of a response to that. Meanwhile, my brother's face was very >:((((, and he ushered me away immediately after I got my photo back. I didn't even get a thank you. My poor tweeny heart was broken.
SO THAT'S MY WIL WHEATON STORY. Sir, if you're reading this, I am not going to buy your dead grandma excuse. I'll need at LEAST a dead dog thrown in for good measure, you bastard.
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