The earliest I recall being upset by romance in a movie was while sitting in the theater watching The Truth About Cats & Dogs at the tender age of thirteen. I’ve always felt more Janeane Garofalo than Uma Thurman*. Looking back, I long for those days, as I was probably more Uma then than I’ll ever be now.
Since then, over these last thirteen years, I’ve seen plenty more tear jerking, gut flipping, heart breaking, laughter inducing, terribly depressing movies. In fact, I can’t get enough of them. But they are so misleading. In real life, the boy rarely gets the girl and the girl rarely find Prince Charming.
Not to mention the dialog in real life is just lame. I’d prefer to have conversations like the characters in Pushing Daisies, rather than the mediocre mumblings I’m privy to on a daily basis.
I find the more I watch these films, the more discontented I become with my own life. The people I deal with become boring, the places I go are bland, and the things I do are banal. I do not feel like I am living so much as merely existing.