I cry at things. Not real things so much, unless it occurs to me that I’m being watched by an audience, who might think I’m a monster if I don’t cry. But show me a single scene of pathos which has nothing to do with me, and I’m off. I cried at 7, when Metal Mickey died. And my mum said “that’s nice, it means you’re sensitive”, when my brother identified it more accurately as an example of extreme homosexuality.
I just cried for the seventh time at this:
And I’ve just made myself get a little bit wet in a Google Chat about my first dog, who died after I told him to get off my bed because he was whimpering, and I wanted to sleep. “Oh, I’ll get off your bed,” he said with a glance. “And then, I’m going to die. Eff you.” The fact he self-censored, even in that angry glance, is perhaps the saddest thing of all.
So, hearing people talk about Toy Story 3 was thrilling. These are the Top 5 things people said to me about Toy Story 3, that made me think I was going to weep myself dry.
- I don’t normally cry at films. But I cried at this.
- I do normally cry at films, but this was different. It was like having your childhood ripped out, and stuck back in with the wide end first.
- I’m an emotionless sociopath, but Toy Story 3 in many ways unlocked my soul. I’ve since been able to empathise and interact properly with my child, who no longer fears me.
- I’m a very emotional person, and this drove me to such irrational extremes of wild sentiment, that I’m scared to open my mouth, for fear of screaming.
- I didn’t cry at Toy Story 3, but it seems that stifling the emotion affected my semen. For a while, I thought I was infertile, but when my wife finally became pregnant we immediately became concerned by a small but constant vaginal discharge. It seemed like water, but on fabrics we didn’t immediately wash, it left behind a salty crust. After nine months of increasing flow, she eventually gave birth to a football sized eyeball. It couldn’t blink, having no eyelid. And it couldn’t cry in the conventional way, having no tear duct. It just span around wildly in its mothers arms, shooting a narrow jet of tear water from its pupil. Once we severed the umbilical cord, it immediately began to deflate. We’re not sure if it’s still alive – or if it ever was. But in future, I am never going to not cry at Toy Story 3 again.
Naturally, I thought something MASSIVE was going to happen. I thought we were going to confront innocence with death. I imagined a right-wing Family Concern storyline in which the toys were handed down across generations, until a childless gay relationship left them with nowhere to go. Then I imagined a series of coded jokes and eye-rolls about getting stuffed up a bumhole, culminating in Buzz ejecting his wings in ano, during the filming of a video that consequently goes viral.
I wasn’t expecting what I got, which was a pretty standard trickle down one cheek – not even a two-cheeker – and some uneven breathing when I realised that the tears were on my boyfriend’s side. The idea that he might see the trickle of tears, and gently touch my forearm nearly made me shudder a bit, but the moment was broken by the knowledge that his real reaction would have been “pfft”.
The same thing happened watching The Orphanage. I’d read a review, and knew that the child was going to go missing. So I spent the first fuck-knows minutes of the film thinking “I bet this is the bit where he goes missing! I bet an EAGLE does it and he’s in a NEST.” By the time he’d actually disappeared, after all that fannying about in a spooky cave, I was exhausted.
And getting old would be much more fun, if someone hadn’t spoiled it by telling me I was going to just die.
So, everyone. Stop talking about stuff. Stop writing about things. Stop having opinions and exposing them to people. Stop communicating ideas and thoughts unless they’re in perfect isolation from everything else. Stop all trailers and publicity campaigns. This kind of teaser campaign for psychological thrillers like Who Put The Bomp is OK:
As long as you don’t follow it up with anything that explains:
a) what BOMP is
b) who the prime suspects for putting it in the BOMP BOMP BOMP might be
c) how Barry Mann’s left hand exists in the yellow cartoon dimension, while his left thigh does not
Finally, never compare things to each other. Saying “you smell like a rose” might ruin the surprise for anyone who’s never smelt a rose, but is kind of meaning to get around to it someday.
The only exception to this is video games, because I quite like writing about those. And it’s not like I’ve ever said anything informative.