Celebs Meet CSSA #7 – Anna Faris

[Ed. Note – Opening her bag one day to sign an autograph, Anna Faris finds a slip of paper with the addresss www.c-s-s-a.com written. She is clueless as to how it got there. The following is what happens when she decide to visit it. This continues the “celebs find CSSA” storyline, as this is part 7 in the series. Enjoy! – Carnage Jackson ]

Title: “He Who Fights Monsters…” (Anna Faris meets c-s-s-a.com)

Author: Quiet Storm (feat. Shattered Dreams Productions)

Celebrity: Anna Faris

Disclaimer: This story is not true, and does not represent the personality of Anna Faris at all. If this
story makes you feel bad, if it doesn’t make sense to you, if I sound insane… then this story was written for you

What would happen if Anna Faris read the stories about her on www.c-s-s-a.com?

Sometimes I wish my face was covered in scars, my body riddled with bullet holes, my eyes cataract blind, my legs crippled and crooked, that my whole body was curded with the physical signs and testimony to the pain and abuse that I have lived through, so every fucking single person who looked at me could know where I’m from. Instead, I am an ordinary looking man, tall and 30 lbs overweight, an unremarkable face, the kind of person you pass on the street every day, and think nothing of; I must hardly seem like a real person at all in fact, if you ever stopped to think about me at all, just background, just one of the extra’s, just one of the crowd. Sometimes I don’t feel like a real person myself either.

I sat in the overcrowded restaurant staring at the pretty face of the girl one table over, I recognised her from a film I had recently seen, Scary Movie II, she was Anna Faris, a pretty B list Hollywood star. Surreptitiously, I studied her while I ate my over-priced steak. I looked into the clean, smooth lines of her features, her happy eyes, her delicate wrists… what the fuck would someone like me mean to someone like her? She’s so pretty. She’s nothing like me.

How could she know what it felt like being 10 years old, getting punched in the face like a grown fucking man by your own father, drunk again, and spitting rage. Lying in bed, pretending you couldn’t hear your younger sister weeping and gasping, wrapping your pillow around your head to shut it out, hating yourself, hating him, hating her, hating the whole world: that seems like a huge, vicious, many tentacled monster, made out of spitting and crackling radio static, lashing you and spinning around you with terrible volume until you just want the whole fucking world to just go away. As I got up to leave, I slipped a piece of paper into Anna Faris’ bag without her noticing. I forcibly tried to push myself out of my own world of pain and self absorption, and back into the world of things. Outside, I tried to think of girls I knew, the job I did, to – if I could not change the way I felt inside – to try and postpone it for a while… because what else is there to do? What else of a life can I have?


It was three days later when Anna found the note in her bag, when she was searching for a pen to sign an autograph for a young fan ironically. She opened up the paper and saw a web site address, c-s-s-a.com. Out of curiosity, and because she had no idea where it had come from, she logged on that evening. When she saw what sort of site it was, she almost logged off, but curiosity again got the better of her and she decided to search for any stories with her in, feeling serious misgivings as she did. An hour later, she had read the library with stories that used her name, all of them from one person, a young black man called Quiet Storm. She read of his dead sister, his self abuse, his false and inverted vanity. Guns, drugs, knives, lives; time after time she saw herself sleep walk or be pushed into hell, only for the hell inside him to overwhelm it, to rescue her like she saw he wished she could rescue him. The stories made Anna feel strange and sad, the clumsy prose, the transparent imagery, the school boy irony that hid nothing of the self contempt the stories were filled with. But ultimately, how much could she care, there was nothing she could do to help him, or anyone like him. The last line of the last story read “I’m dead. I’m as dead as hell. This is my story, this is my only story”. Anna shrugged, hoped he could make it; but make it to where she knew not, because his battle with himself was not a war he could win, or a race he could get to the end of and be ok, instead he was treading water, fighting hard to stop the infinite placidity of the great ocean swallowing him whole, there was no end, just to fight or die; or to fight and die later; no joy, no happiness, no connection – just his own damaged soul cowering in the shell of his misery and alienation…

Anna started, pushing the thoughts aside as her fiancé stepped up behind her and kissed her shoulder.

“What’s this, some sort of porn site, gross!” he interjected

“Not really. I guess it is, and it is a porn site, but this isn’t really porn”

Reading over her shoulder, he read a few lines that he could not make sense of “What is it?”

Anna shrugged, feeling a little sorry and helpless and she felt whatever connection she had felt diminish, and all that was left was a little ordinary pity, and her own thoughts for herself and her own world

“I don’t know. A suicide note? Some kind of therapy? Some kind of sick joke at himself? I cant really tell.” She logged off her PC and let her man carry her away from the PC, from the world of pain and dull eyed introspection she had found in the stories.


Later that night, when my part of the story is over, when I have passed from sight and faded away, Anna lay down on her bed and let him kiss her. She let him slip off her bra and she let him push his hand inside of her panties. She kissed his neck and chewed his ear, wrapped her thighs around his thigh and ground herself against him in a mock act of the real act they were about to perform. He flipped her over and took her from behind, one hand supporting his weight and the other reaching round to run the front of her entrance as he slipped himself carefully into her. She bucked her hips back into him with each thrust, pushing him deeper inside; he grunted and made satisfied sounds and she whimpered, trying to hold the excitement inside of her, trying to deny herself the pleasure she felt, a game she always played with herself, because it made the release, when it came, so much better.

With the beauty and implicity of two people who know each other perfectly, who feel safe and sure in each others’ arms; he fucked her. Her pretty hair bounced against his face as he thrust, he kissed it, it tasted clean and sweet. He loved to do it this position, not because of the pleasure it gave him, or even that it always made her cum, but because he loved to push his weight down on her, feel her every move and twitch against him, until it almost felt as if they were two parts of one person, independent of each other in consciousness, but each feeling every thing the other did. He loved to feel the muscles in her back flex, to feel her lithe hips tense, to feel her toes curl when he hit that. She came before him, and he began to thrust with abandon, making himself cum and her again. Then they collapsed into each others arms. For no reason he could understand, she laughed, leaned over and girlishly gave him a peck on the cheek. He laughed too, he felt so in love with her, he felt so great when he was with her.


Meanwhile, I sat at my PC, miles and miles away, and further away in spirit. I was drunk on apple cider, I had stomach pains every time I drink these days, I try to stop, but it’s hard. It upsets my stomach every morning, and at the top of my stomach, beneath the pit of my chest, I feel a pain swelling and twisting. Sometimes my whole chest feels numb and I get scared I might have a heart attack; I try to stop smoking and it makes me want to drink, I try to stop drinking and it makes me want to smoke. Several nights in the last month, I have been unable to sleep, I lie awake, hypochondriac, feeling for my own pulse and terrified when I can’t find it; I tell myself the numbness in my chest is just something to do with the muscles there, caused by typing too much, all day at work and then all night at home, but secretly I fear my heart might stop working, I am putting on weight, I know, in all seriousness, I cannot live like I live and live to be old.

I type out pornographic stories about movie stars, then I delete them, or sometimes I send them to a site called www.c-s-s-a.com. And I never knew this till now, but every now and again, Anna Faris logs on and reads the stories. I don’t know what she feels, I don’t know if she even really reads them, maybe she just checks to see if there are anymore there or not. I don’t expect she likes them, I am sure she does not find them sexy. Once, I suspect, she felt sorry for the person who wrote them, but the stories, and the misuse of her name must have long tried her patience; she cannot even connect the stories to herself I expect, because the person in them is surely nothing like her. She hasn’t checked in for a few months now, perhaps she never will again. What can I expect, that she would feel sorry for me, want to help me, that she COULD help me?

I’m sorry if this offends you, I didn’t want to offend you. I just wanted you to notice me, to what end? I don’t know, I never knew I guess, I just don’t know anymore. I’m not a stalker, or even a fan; to be honest, I don’t really even like you. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing…


Anna Faris woke up the next morning, feeling happy and content. She had just read a good script, she thought the role would be perfect for her, and her first reading went well. She held her fiancé while he slept, he made her so happy, she loved to look at him when he slept, to see him so peaceful. In fact, she only ever saw the site once, the boy was wrong, as he was wrong about so much. I doubt she even remembers the address now, she has never wanted to log to it again, why would she? It doesn’t mean anything to her. Certainly, she had read the depressed boys stories, felt sorry for him, but how long can the feeling last, when the connection is so tenuous, so weak? She got up and slipped on a gown, went down to make breakfast, trying to be as quiet as possible so as she could wake him up with breakfast, and he would smile at her, and she would smile at him, and everything would be perfect.

Of course, she had her doubts, her problems, her insecurities; her and her fiancé had had their problems, just like everyone. The boy never saw that, he hardly saw anything at all, I guess, ultimately, he didn’t care either. He didn’t care any more for her than she did for him, and she didn’t care about him at all, didn’t even remember him at all.

More stories might appear on the website, or they might not; she wouldn’t know. One day, maybe there’d be an item on the local radio that she didn’t listen to, or a piece in a local paper that was from a region thousands of miles away, saying that a boy killed himself today; that a boy hanged himself today. And if that happened, she would not ever even know. She would not even know. This means nothing.

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