Last night, I just finished watching The Ugly Truth and was basking in the afterglow of Gerard Butler’s extreme yumminess when a thought occured to me: why can’t my life be a romantic comedy?
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to have a tragic drama life worthy of an indie film festival award but sometimes, just sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a popcorn and bubble gum kind of life. You know, the kind where the cold and cynical heroine finds a new belief in love everlasting and kisses her dashing co-star to an uplifting soundtrack instead of careening to a life of drugs and bitterness and loneliness concluded by a melodramatic suicide to an appropriately melodramatic background music.
So I leafed through my diary and read through my blog in an attempt to, in a way, review my life and guess what I found? An overwhelming dose of bitterness, loneliness, and melodrama. Damn. No wonder I said I don’t want to be read. Aside from the random would-be-suicide-victim who needs a little extra push to get over the edge, I don’t see who would. It’s entry after entry of bellyaching whines.
Oh, well. They say that when it comes to writing, write about what you know. Maybe my need for profound reason and meaning leaves no space for popcorn and bubble gum. It’s sarcasm over slapstick, gloom over giggles.
And I guess a kiss from Gerard Butler is out of the question as well.