The Notebook. The Holiday. 10 Things I Hate About You. Pretty in Pink. The Wedding Date. Pretty Woman. Must Love Dogs. How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days. 13 Going on 30. Love Actually. And Love Actually again. And again.
And again.
Always single. Always whining, "Where's my Prince Charming?" or my tried and true, "I want that."
Of course, I don't really want that. I imagine Jude Law is much more high maintenance than I could ever dream to be. And Richard Gere, handsome as he may be, is admittedly, way too old.
Whether it be a Sex & the City marathon (I've always been an Aidan girl...Mr. Big is much too smooth for me) or identifying with Bridget Jones, for as long as I can remember, chick flicks have always left me with this empty feeling inside. This pining. This longing.
Theology may suggest that that longing can only be filled with the Lord, and while Jesus Christ is my ultimate favorite, he's not what I'm thinking of when I watch Andrew McCarthy lay a wet one on Molly Ringwald.
I've always wanted that. Not necessarily the excess saliva (I'm plenty productive on my own thank you very much), but the that.
Ladies you know what I mean. Guys, I really don't know if I can describe it.
Since obtaining that, I really haven't done that much chick flicking. Until Saturday night. For the countless years I was single, I always wondered what sort of feeling I'd be left with after watching a chick flick while having that.
I don't think it worked. As in, I think such an experiment needs to be done when your that is at least in the same time zone as you. Because after watching (crying, cheering, crying some more) Definitely, Maybe, my feeling was pretty much the same. With just a minor tweak.
I want my that here.
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