(I advise you against the perusal of this post. But if you must, go on.)
Dear ______ (that’s how you start a letter right?)
Take my advice; don’t ask me for movie suggestions. Yes, I do watch an abnormal number of movies for a normal person. But I ain’t a normal person, right? No, I’m not a girl but storm with skin, nebulae exploding, cancer’s cure and not yours.
See? This is what happens when you watch too many movies. You get maudlin dramatic, inordinate sugar-coated eloquence (written by a pauper), walk swaying your hips unfashionably and carry on with you work like someone is taping a video of you in slow motion. Anyways, back to the point, don’t ask me for a movie suggestion, I’ll ask you to watch 500 days of Summer, Napoleon Dynamite, End of the Tour, Trainspotting, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, The Martian and more movies (where most of them are figuratively nauseous).
By “nauseous” I don’t mean crude scenes that will mentally disturb the plebian minds but rather those movies which define futility; that have no story, they are pointless, they have a few never-heard-of songs that are majorly of strums of acoustic guitar with profound lyrics that sounds like a sentence being spoken than a lyric being sung, a note of violin and piano here and there, a string of abstruse dialogues and a plot so thick you’ll end up thinking how you started watching this movie in the first place. But maybe because of the bad taste I possess in almost everything, I love these movies. I download the whole soundtrack of the movie, let myself drown in the frail music, cry over the sickest dialogue, and watch the movie over and over till the point where I start speaking dialogues of the movie in daily life.
Someone: Hey, that boy over there, he’s from your class right? Is he okay? I kinda have a crush on him.
Me: Plutonium-dense, satirical quiz-kid opus, colossally disruptive and spectacularly good.
Next, I’d like to introduce you to the newly found (but has been subsisting since the production of the first movie ever) evil, malign phenomenon that goes by the apt term “movie effect”. The victims (including me) of the “movie effect” are hapless people whose life ambitions are trifled with. Our aspirations drift rapidly from being a troglodyte existentialist to an over-the-night-billionaire. Disappointments suck and the more movies you watch you realize how awfully disappointing your life is that even being cancer stricken sounds passable. And the process of invariably trying to restore dopamine levels becomes an act that will eventually cause damage. Ergo, you just lay on your unwashed bed, propped up against the bed post, watch otiose movies, cry over fictional deaths, and ponder over why adventures such as well, all those that happen in movies don’t actually happen in real life.
As I type this I make a mental note to bring songs of The Beatles, Nirvana, The Smiths, Sex Pistols and all the other non-popular awesome-sauce bands next time from home to listen to while ranting about movies, inutility and the existentialist philosophy. Some movies wreck you; they will leave you weeping, lost and bleak. They will bury you in the intricate scaffolds of sensitive, hopelessly quixotic lines. They will break you but because of the realists that we are, such trifle matters won’t disappoint us, except maybe a little, but enough to conk us out of our senses? Alright. By now you’ll be wondering about how I started writing such out of the blue, depressing stuff that arrives at merely watching movies, even I’m wondering about the same thing. Shit that time does. Shakespeare rightly said such a slut time is. This post is supposed to be epistolary so whoever reading this – you can write back about any random thing, I don’t mind reading and replying you back. Uh, that’s how a letter ends right?
Love (customary/default settings enabled signature),