Right now I'm having the hardest time trying to understand why cancer is such a turn on for girls.
For full effect, download “Sorrow” by Boxcar Racer and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
Me: “So let me get this straight, this movie which is an adaptation from a best-selling novel, is about a guy and a girl who fall in love, who also conveniently have cancer together. Is that right?”
Megan: "Well, yeah…That's pretty much the gist of the story.”
Me: “And I'm assuming that by the premise of them having a terminal disease that either one or both of them die by the end.”
Megan: “Do you want me to ruin the ending for you?”
Me: “Last time I checked I'm a 29-year-old heterosexual male who doesn't own a single Taylor Swift album, so go right ahead.”
Megan: (spoiler alert) “Alright, so the protagonist male ultimately dies because of cancer but he's deeply in love with her, and over the course of the story she finally lets herself go, becomes vulnerable, and falls in love with him.”
Me: “That's it? That's how it ends?”
Megan: “Well yeah, basically.”
Me: “There's nothing else? No happy ending? No fade into the sunset? He just dies and it's over?”
Megan: “Well it’s not just about him dying. Like, the last chapter has the funeral, and then she comes home and reads a letter from him that he wrote to her before he died. And then it's pretty much over.”
Me: “And you fell in love with this story?”
Megan: “Yeah, it's pretty much the most beautiful thing I've ever seen or read.”
The above conversation is exactly why I will never understand the emotional lunacy that makes the female brain work.
Seriously people, there has to be something wrong with the female gender. Why must they always have some type of sadness/abuse/mental disorder in order to fall in love? Why do they thrive on infinite pain and disorder? Why do things like chemo and funerals captivate them? Think about it for a second, just look at the last few literary fetishes their gender has had in order to get all hot and bothered.
First there was the codependent argumentative couple with an old Grandfather telling stories from a notebook to a nutjob who didn't even knew he existed because of Alzheimer's. Then you had the bipolar/semi-depressed vampire who was on the verge of committing daylight suicide because he couldn’t stand to be away from some pasty girl who was being whisked away by a shirtless freak with a history of physical abuse. Oh hey, and what about those 50 shades of disturbia, a romance littered with sadomasochism that was one of the all-time best-selling trilogies for women aged 18 to 49. It was a disturbing sexual disorder clinic and you lapped it up like Hershey’s syrup off Bradley Cooper’s abs.
And here we sit at yet another installment of depression/sadness/disturbed family problems that is making you think there is true love out there somewhere for you. I must say, even though I was raised by 11 women I still have no idea how this ludicrous concoction of literary depression makes any sense whatsoever.
Why can't you just fall in love with happy stories? Why doesn't the Dread Pirate Roberts coming back from the dead to save his girl and ride off into the sunset on the backs of four white stallions, why doesn't that do it for you? Why can’t the scene at the top of the Empire State building where a sleepless Tom Hanks bumps into a stalking Meg Ryan holding a backpack in her arms that connects them for life be as poignant in your eyes? Why can’t you be content with that?
Megan: “It's because The Fault In Our Stars is about real life. It's about what happens to everyday normal people. And that's what makes it so good.”
Hey here's a side note, we don't read stories for what happens in real life. We read stories for the fantasies that we want to have happen but know they never will. If every time I posted a blog that had the most depressing, half-empty, negative spin on life in general would all of you keep coming back? Of course not. Because the stories we want to hear are not about real-life. The best stories are embellished and inflated creations of what we want to have happen.
Part of my feelings for this feminine enigma go back to a previous post where I blatantly pointed out that girls want projects. They want problems. They don't want Grade-A guys who have their heads on straight and have good careers and smell nice in public settings, they want tools with popped collars and white sunglasses and messy pasts who have been in college for 17 years. They want these runts so they can groom and fix them into the picture-perfect man they hope one day they will evolve into. That's what girls want, that's why girls L-word these tales filled with misery.
Jane Dell: "See that's the thing Brock, that's why you are never going to get married. It's because you don't understand how a woman thinks and feels. That's why you'll be single for the rest of your life.”
No, I think my greatest flaw is that I am not a raging, abusive alcoholic who thrives on a sexual disorder while fighting a terminal illness that will put me six feet under by Christmas, I think that is my biggest problem.