Sailor Moon

Finally saw the last episode of Sailor Moon today, after having sat through three seasons of re-runs.

I cried.

I lie, I bawled. I broke down and sobbed. Felt slightly guilty afterwards while wiping my snot off on Dan's sweater that happened to be laying next to me. [Armani, forgive me] I mean, here I am, grown girl and all, sobbing at the "death" of little animated super heroes whose eyes are bigger than your average thrift shop hams, while there's so much other sadness in the world. Little children whose parents can't even afford Christmas trees, and little children get the same branch doll for Christmas every year.

Son: "I can see its arms, that's those branches poking out of the middle, but where's it's head?"

Father:"There!"

Son: "That's not a head, that's a wasp's nest!"

Father: "No, it's not. See? There are the beady little eyes! Ten of them! And they move! Yes! Yes, it's a remote control action figure stick doll that's what it is."

Son: "The eyes Pappa! The eyes are flying out of its head! They're hurting me!"

Father, groaning : "Damn thrift shop!"

I'm not the only one around these here parts who's done a fair share of crying. I might have mentioned that Dan's got himself a girlfreind. I might have also mentioned that I find this hilariously funny. I find all relationships hilariously funny, unless I happen to find myself in one, in which case I'm either being stalked or dead. Considering my renowned beauty and wit, I wouldn't be surprised if both of these occurred simultaneuosly, I hear Necrophelia is the third white meat. Still probably wouldn't find the situation very amusing. I find Dan's situation amusing. Like all people who claim to be searching for that one great romanticised-to-extinction love and write countless breathless sonnets on it, Dan is pathologically afraid of relationships. Naturally, I exploit this and use relationship-related terms as often as possible.

[scene: couch in living room]

Me, shreiking "Ick! What would your GIRLFREIND think if she saw you scratching your crotch in public?"

Him "We're indoors right now."

Me "Yes, but try to think outside the box" (congratulations to me and my metaphor!) "Think of your GIRLFREIND."

You can see his balls fleeing in hordes.

But I'm not evil. I'm just the DESIGNATED SINGLE PERSON. It's my responsibility to weed out the frail among us, and bring them back to the corall. The world of singles' parties, stale wine, bad cigarettes and worse lovers at the occasional swinger-related festivities. Back to the Stockholm Suburbian reality of that we have a reputation to keep. We can't all just go and get married. We are known for having the second highest suicide rate and the most single people in relation to land, or space, or cows, per capita -I can't remember - but there are rules to be followed. Kosher to keep kosher. Sabbaths to be recognized and one night stands to be stood. Aren't there?

This coming from someone who's been called an Oprah of relationships a couple of times (in a positive context mind you.) I'm no Oprah. I'm just black anyway - and I can do quite well thank you without people asking for advice about their relationships and me frantically flipping through my chinese fortune cookie collection. You can only tell people "You will live long and prosper" so many times before they start getting suspicious, you know? Sword of Damocles, that's what it is. And then their hearts break. And then no fortune cookies in the world can help you to help them. And you stand there like an actor without a script, or a stage, or a clue that you're really just day dreaming while you're flipping fries.

And then your best friend falls in love with you. And you stand there like, just standing. And then you turn and run, your balls fleeing in hordes.

I know I was supposed to stick to the theme. Sailor Moon, was it?
I always seem to be getting off track.
I cried anyway.