Been wondering what love is? Pining? Staring? Forgetting to shower? Or showering too much? Have I got something to make you feel even filthier:

The Princess Bride.

That’s right. Just what the doctor ordered–or what you tell yourself the doctor ordered, because fresh air and exercise sounds fucking miserable when you think the world is a pile of excrement–except you don’t realize that’s exactly what you’re doing when you press play on that TV remote. You’re simulating fresh air and exercise by means of the television. That wonderful 50 inch peephole. Who needs to go out and watch people laughing and spontaneously being pulled at the waist into a heartfelt deep kiss as they slowly raise their foot when you can kick it back in stained sweatpants while shoveling Moose Tracks into your face as people pretend to do it on the Big Screen? 

It’s a no brainer. 

You could put on some John Mayer that you and the ex used to listen to every Sunday while preparing for dinner, but you already did that. And then you ripped the speakers from the wall and chucked them into the bathtub because the pain was too much and you thought you were having the falling sickness, but that’s what John Mayer is for. That’s what music is for: to accentuate the mood you’re in or the mood you want to be in. But you can’t put on music right now. Because the stereo’s dead. Exploded. Terminated in the bathtub. But you want to feel miserable watching other people be happy. The Princess Bride? That’s where it’s at.

Do you need to know about the brewing dissension between Florin and its sworn enemy Guilder? Not a lick. Wesley and Buttercup. The farm boy and the stable girl. That should be the only thing on your radar. Except when Fezzik or Inigo are around…but stop…that’s making you smile…friends…loyalty…kindness…no…they don’t exist…they can’t exist…not for you…not right now…you need to feel like shit.

“Farmboy? Fetch me that pitcher?”

“As you wish.”

That’s more like it. Kick me in the nuts. My heart should be bleeding all over the floor in all its metaphorical splendor. He still loves her. He’ll always love her. She’ll always love him. How is this possible? It’s not. 

But maybe it is.

That’s what this movie is about. It’s a Pandora’s box. That electric scooter your ex bought you? The $500 dollar “massage” pillow? That trip to Mexico? All diseased and deadly. The Princess Bride is that hope at the bottom of the barrel: the worst disease of them all. Because after you finish watching this film, you’re going to think someone is still out there, just for you, who’s going to care about you, who’s going to buy you all this stuff, and not because they’re expecting some reciprocated gift-related sex afterwards, but because you actually want this crap. That true love, that inimitable love, that…

Fucking hell…FUCK YOU, WESLEY! You unrealistic son of a bitch. Buttercup? He’s going to break your heart five months from now and say he still cares about you, but you know better. Fucking bastard…where’s my pitching wedge? Where’s my fucking pitching wedge?!?!

Well…there goes the TV.

But hey, I mean, you don’t have to be down in the dumps to watch The Princess Bride. Highly recommended for a Saturday night. Pairs well with Chinese food or a half glass of whatever. The book’s not too shabby, either. 

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