It’s 6:30 am….I just finished watching Pretty in Pink for the millionth time. That movie never ceases to make me me cry like a baby. But tonight/this morning I felt the need to go through it again. The nostalgic yearning for more youthful times and loves long lost, the strain that differences in socioeconomic status can put on a budding relationship, the sheer agony of unrequited love at such a tender age….The range of emotions and experiences that the storyline has to offer is really well-portrayed. I probably cry during every other scene of this movie.
My heart especially goes out to all of the Philip F. Dale’s of the world…including myself. I don’t know what it is about him, or about me, but I have this obsession with victims and the process of victimization when it comes to love stories. I secretly crave heartache, but only as it relates to the unrequited lover. It’s like watching a car wreck, but you just can’t turn away because deep down you want to see the devastation. I swear, I only watch these movies in order to cry. I just want to see someone else hurt.
Sometimes I “fantasize” about being in Duckie’s position, even though it’s really not necessary, nor is it necessarily healthy. I’ve been in his position many times before. As uncomfortable as it is, it is the most comfortable situation for me, as it is the most familiar. But it’s never quite so satisfying while it happens to me, as it is watching it happen to someone else. As horrible and sadistic as that sounds, I admit that I derive some sort of sick, twisted satisfaction from seeing it, from reading about it, from thinking about it. A primitive part of me genuinely likes watching people hurt, but only in this one, particular, emotionally unique way.
I think about it incessantly, and I set up these fictional situations in my head just so that I can play through them, imagining myself in their place, and imagining how painful it would be. I never want them to get what they want. I just want them to keep hurting while I leech feelings from them. I always end up crying, but it’s oddly satisfying. It feels like I’m getting to amplify something that I’ve already personally gone through, just to know that it was, is and can be real. And it does something for me on a level that I’m half-way ashamed of, if not confused by. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not just using the pain of fictional characters as an excuse to cry over my own ills.
Regardless, it’s a horrible, sad fascination that I dare not bring up again. I’m off to bed.