A Brutal Love Note

There's probably a complicated German phrase that will adequately define the kind of person you would be, if you could elude all pretenses– untie all those silk ribbons that shroud our truths, and just throw caution to the wind and say:

Roses are roses

Violets are violets

And I love you

My Unparalleled Universe

Ever had one of those sudden mind blowing moments of realization? Epiphanies so deep and profound that if made known to mankind could perhaps be the solution to attaining world peace...

And then you step out of the shower and you're back to being the girl who knows way too many fun facts about the latest boyband and Tom Cruise.

New Invention Idea: Shower Epiphany Journal. (Overly enthusiatic voiceover) Introducing your very own personal water-resistant writing-material present in your very own bathroom that helps you jot down mindblowing ideas as they come to you. The Shower Epiphany Journal (tm). Tell your friends.

No, that wasn't my mind blowing moment of realization. I just had an epiphany, that made no sense at all and perhaps all the sense in the world at the same time. And no, it isn't the answer to world peace or preventing global warming. Perhaps, just a solution to a trivial handicap that has been plaguing me over the years. I still have the logistics to work out, but I am sure that what is broken can be mended. The first step is acceptance, right? All I can hope is that, like the end of the Harry Potter series, all will be well. 

Frank Navasky Appreciation Post

So I recently saw the movie You've Got Mail for the millionth time, one of my ultimate feel-good movies. And while every one in the audience is completely enraptured with Meg Ryan's playful charm and the radiant charisma of Tom Hanks, and their evident on-screen chemistry, I always end up drooling over that "nut from The Observer who's so in love with his typewriter".

"..the gentle soothing lullaby of a piece of machinery, so perfect.."

Yes, I am talking about the ruggedly handsome Frank Navasky, played by Greg Kinnear (who I might add seems to be getting more and more devastatingly bangable attractive with age.)

Frank Navasky is a columnist for the New York Observer, a supporting character who managed to steal every scene he was in, and my heart. He is a literary genius who spouts literal magic with his words, and he is highly opinionated when it comes to politics without seeming too condescending. And if all of this isn't attractive, I don't know what is. But what is even more attractive is the fact that he is, well, a dork. He has an extraordinary way with words but still bungles on national television. He is completely oblivious to women hitting on him. And who doesn't love how his face lights up when he hits a key on his Olympia Report deLuxe Electric, the newest edition to his typewriter collection.

Also, viewers don't give Frank enough credit for the fact that he takes the time to end his relationship with Kathleen like a gentleman: by sitting down, explaining what’s happened, listening to her side, and ending up being friends. Where can I find a Frank Navasky?

Frank Navasky: typewriter hoarder, writer extraordinaire, overall great guy

So, thank you(r), Frank Navasky, through your albeit supporting character, you've not only fostered in me a feeling of distrust in technology, but also raised my already high expectations in men.

Okay, you know what. I like cliche. In fact, I want cliche.

I want my life to be like a bad rom-com, with it's predictable twists and unoriginal plot lines. Sure I could go without the extremely public sweeping declaration of undying devotion because, well, ick, but I would like to live one of those dumb cliches we are always seeing on big screen: mundane activities like painting the garage with your SO which inevitably lead to playfully flicking paint at each other; or an alcohol-induced duet of a tone-deaf rendition of Don't Go Breaking My Heart on karaoke; or even a dash of partial-nudity under the pretext of the act of chivalry in the pouring rain...

You know what, that last one did actually happen. Oh yes, it happened. That story transpires to late July '12. An impromptu heavy shower of rain, followed by a boy taking off his shirt and handing it to me so I wouldn't get cold from the rain. 

To answer your question, no there wasn't any accidental make-out sesh like it was The Notebook or anything; it was purely platonic. A noble gesture indeed, my good sir. But never before had my life felt like such an uninspired and overly-cliche scene from a cheesy chick-flick. 

And the worst part is, I liked it. I like cheesy.

In Defence Of Pick Up Lines

"Kids, have I ever told you the story of how I met your father? Well, I was at this wild nightclub, when he brushed up against me and asked me if my dad happened to own a dairy company. 

'Um, no. Why do you ask?' 

'Because, well, you have, like, a nice set of jugs.' 

'Father my children', I breathed, because kids, in that moment I just knew he was The One."

So, the above can be described as an incredibly unrealistic circumstance for the sole reason that it was, well, EWW SO GROSSSSS. And it clearly establishes that pick-up lines just do not work. Your average rom-com drives this point home pretty hard. The horribly-crafted cringe-worthy pick up line of that guy with that creepy smirk never fails to yield a drink thrown dramatically in his face. So, I understand if the title of this post pretty much justifies that I am the female equivalent of that guy. 

I'm not. I just think, that despite their flaws, pick-up lines do have redeeming qualities. 

Contrary to popular belief, pick-up lines do not exist for the purposes of getting someone to drop their panties displaying romantic interest. Wikipedia defines a pick-up lines as “a conversation opener with the intent of engaging an unfamiliar person”. Because sometimes all a pick-up line intends to do is, well, break the ice. 

You know, how in every colloquy, there comes a point, where all conversation comes to a standstill, and you’re just standing there shuffling your feet, and spouting breathtaking intellect like, “Sooo? The weather, huh? Crazy.” At this point, any rational person would try get out of the awkward, using a range of excuses from a panicked “I gotta pee” to a well thought out “My godmother is in the hospital. She just had a panda shoved up her uterus. I need to see her, bye.” 

In lieu of any of this, I prefer to choose a different route. Yes, Reader, I am, in fact, one of those; the kind who spits out a bad (albeit hilarious) pick up line, turning awkward moments even more awkward.

I am not deranged, I have my reasons okay. See, pick up lines are constructed in such a way that it requires no explanation. You get it, or you don't. That is why more often than not, a pick up line can be used as a subtle method to test if someone is cool or not. If the recipient responds with a stretched out, “Riiiiight. Oh-kaaaay?” it indicates failure. On the contrary, if the line "Hey, were you forged by Sauron? Because you look precious." is met with a favourable response, well then, DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNER!

Executing pick-up lines are risky, it involves ignoring that tiny voice in your head signalling you to “Abort mission. I repeat, abort." The stakes are high, and the outcome unpredictable. Like I said earlier, pick up lines aren't a marriage proposal or some kind of sex-coupon, sometimes it's just someone acting on a "hey, s/he's cute" impulse, in a witty albeit exaggerated manner. So well hey, props for boldness. Because, reader the way to my heart is not through a giant bouquet of flowers or a double-decker box of chocolates; but through words.

Or maybe someday I'll be a desperate forty-something in a bar shamelessly abusing bad pick up lines, and this is good practice...

So tell me, Reader, did it hurt? You know, when you fell from heaven?

Sidebar: I know, I know, it's been a year since I last posted. I've been treating my poor blog like a neglected middle-child (Yes, potential Psych major here). I have a final tomorrow, and well, my mind is most creative when I have to study. Ugh, finals are the worst beasts in the land, they come from stolen bodies of good elves and are turned into wild beings—

Wow, I need caffeine.