Chickflicks.

Sometimes you just have to get it over with. You eye the DVD from across the room, remember that you haven’t seen the movie since you saw it in theaters in December—and for good reason—but you pick the case up guiltily, figuring you should just rip the emotionally unstable bandage off while you have a ton of other things to do instead of on a day where you have time to sit around and cry for no reason. Although, even on these busy days, you still spend the time sitting around crying for no reason.
Somehow, you unconsciously end up in your pajamas, (even though it’s five in the afternoon) sliding the DVD into the player, having mysteriously blacked out since you picked it up downstairs on the counter. You then sink, already apprehensively teary-eyed, into a nest of wrinkly pillows, either in your bed or on a smelly old couch, and become slave to the Self-Assailing Blackmail Emotional Death Bad Death that is the chick flick that has so many personal (if cheesy) manifestations that you can’t even get through it without choking back a full-on sob at least once.
Every female has at least one of these special flicks, if not two or three, or seven. During the movie, you have to get up to go to the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper, because you’re out of Kleenex. Which is, for some reason, really annoying, the fact that you don’t even have a full-on box of tissues to clutch. So you sit there holding your roll of toilet paper. At least it’s the soft kind. You also get up from your hole of emotion at least twice to go get food you didn’t realize you were hungry for until you began the movie and began to become In Touch with the emotions you rarely muster up, mainly because of the fact that you can consume a couple two liters of ginger ale, a half-gallon of ice cream, and assorted chips/cookies while In Touch with them. The movie ends, you let out a quivery sigh, notice you’ve sucked in enough calories to support one of those kids on TV for a good, five, fat years, and think that the wonderful misery of In Touchness is over.
No.
All a sudden, your mind does this frantic run-through of the reel of people you have ever had any kind of relationship with in your life, in a neat, efficient order of importance, and you have this overwhelming, twenty-minute-long NEED to be LOVED by SOMEONE, ANYONE, even if it’s one of the real DICKS you know you should never talk to again. You want to call the kid you fell in love with in kindergarten and ask him why he got a girl pregnant and tell him you feel sorry for him. You want to call your first boyfriend, from the ninth grade, and talk to him and say thanks for holding your sweaty hand five years ago. You want to call Casey and bribe him to come home sooner. You want to call Lanee and make monkey noises. You want to call the most supreme Ass Hole in the world, from your junior year in high school, and scream until your jaw unhinges and your eyes pop out, like in the Mask, and tell him you seriously hate him more than any human being on the planet. You want to call The Mistake and cuddle for hours and hours. You want to call Tacher and shoot Ramen out of your nose over the phone. You want to call TYO and say something really stupid about how you feel. You want to call Mr. Downs and tell him he was the best teacher ever and cry a little and be glad he’s like your second dad. You want to call sixteen other people but cry more because you can’t because you won’t see them for months and months because they’re on their missions. You want to call all the temporary replacements for these people too, but you don’t. Luckily, you don't call any of these people, because your sense of reason kicks back in just as these feelings could become potentially spoutable.
And then, all of a sudden, you feel fine. Great, actually. Like you got a long, restorative nap. You stop eating, you sit up, you walk around, and you even get a little homework done.
And you wait for the day, in a couple of months, where you have a lot to do, and you see The Notebook on the counter, across the room.
Seriously.