Not A Romantic Comedy
Earlier this afternoon I was standing behind an extremely attractive, poshly dressed twenty-something woman who, while sobbing intermittently, purchased sixteen romantic comedies (She made sure to announce the genre of her movies in a voice sufficiently loud to penetrate the ears of everyone in line) and enough Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to send her pancreas into shock. As I stood there admiring the spectacle, her phone rang and she engaged in a brief, albeit quite dramatic, conversation which confirmed my suspicion that she was recently dumped. She appeared to be the sort of person who would be fun to break up with (self-indulgent, self-serving, comically shallow, etc.), so, purely in the interest of science, I decided to probe the deepest recesses of her not-so-deep brain, with a wholly unexpected question. “So,” I said, nonchalantly, “do you think it’s possible that you’re making a public display of your intention to escape into comforting cinematic fantasy and chocolate’s serotonin and endorphin-releasing effects because, on a fundamental level, you’re looking for attention and sympathy from random strangers who can’t possibly know that you deserve absolutely none of it?” A moment of silence. Her eyes grew wide. “You don’t know me! What the hell are you talking about!?”, she replied. “I’m talking about your boyfriend dumping you because he couldn’t stomach your incessant need to be constantly heard, looked at, and otherwise entertained…I’m talking about the harsh sting of reality, kiddo.” “Fuck you, sick asshole!,” she said before bee-lining to the door, leaving her purchases behind. Sweet victory.