I have been staring at your Wookiee face for far too long now.
For the past 63 hours, as we've counted down the minutes to the 12:01 revealing of the newest addition to the canon, while my friends and I played Star Wars Monopoly and Star Wars Battleship (and occasionally sunk to playing the CCG) and shared our Herculean tales of marathon viewings (incl. Christmas Special) and the unspeakable horrors of convention carpooling, you've been there, a dark presence, mostly nodding in silence, occasionally laughing at inappropriate moments. Can't you see you're not one of us?
"So, come here often?" It's the best joke you can muster as we emerge from our tents for the third (and thankfully final) time, your words muffled beneath that plastic monstrosity you call a mask. Where did you buy that costume? Party City? A flea market? Or did you stop in one of those endlessly morphing holiday-specific junk stores at the strip mall some listless November morning and snatch up the clearance bin? What seemed like impulsive folly then must no doubt feel like triumph now.
Yet despite your woeful outfit, you managed to get in line for Revenge of the Sith a full 20 minutes before me, Fan Club Member #299, Jedi aficionado, and (currently unemployed) comic book retail associate. I remember when we crossed paths the first time. You looked straight at me, with my intricate green makeup, my textured white robe, - my God, man, the pointy ears! - and without hesitation offered, "Whoa! Jabba the Hutt, right?"
These are the days I pray my titanium lightsaber was powered by more than a fifty cent LED.
Since then, all of your annoying habits have been revealed to me. Your insufferable laugh, your babble about the virtues of personal hygiene while you're "roughing it", your gushing admiration of the pod race in Phantom Menace - the list is practically endless. But what tops them all are your pathetic attempts to buddy buddy with me, trying to create a rapport. A rapport built on deceit and manipulation! A slimy Palpatine, awkwardly slapping my back, impersonating C-3PO by doing the robot, asking if that girl with us, Llewellyn, is she, like, my girlfriend or what? No, no. You won't find me underestimating the power of the Dark Side ...
And then it happened. I step away for five minutes - five minutes - to answer to my own natural Force. When I return, there you are, talking to Llewellyn. You cannot talk to her. You cannot talk to her. It doesn't matter that we're not technically boyfriend and girlfriend. She is into Japanimation! You are into being an asshole! And now she's laughing! Betrayal!
"Isn't Clint funny, Matt? Do it again, Clint." You oblige, doing that breathy cowish snort again, your pitiful attempt at Chewbacca's sorrowed tenor.
"Oh, funny he is," I reply in my own well-practiced Yoda. Now your arm snakes around Llew's shoulder, and you bleat again, a fanfare of conquest. She's still laughing, laughing at my foolishness. I have come to understand things all too late. Tricked by a clumsy, inarticulate beast! Lunging at you, you offer no defense.
Despite their iron grip, my hands are merely passive agents. Like the dark lord Vader himself, it is my mind alone that crushes your throat into furry oblivion.