Cool Kids Take Antidepressants.

I was with Robin the first time it happened. He was tall and strong and handsome ­–everything a young lesbian could ever want to disdain- and he carried me in his strong and handsome arms to the emergency room, where the nurses in charge of bandaging stab wounds and pulling bullets out of people’s flesh told me it was a panic attack. A panic attack. Panic is for the weak, I thought. Panic makes you cry, it doesn’t make you feel like you’re going to die, you know? Right there and then I wished it had been something serious. I wished for a brain tumor. A brain tumor would have been a great way not to waste everyone else’s time. Brain hemorrhage, and people would have been able to say I took after my grandfather, remember? The one who went to war. With nerves I always take after my father. The one who vomits before getting on an airplane.


If I had died in his arms, it would have granted me the attention I yearned for back in suburbia growing up. I used to watch movies where crazy women got crazy pills and did crazy things. I wished for something serious so I could take those pills but Ciudad Satélite is not California and the nineties are not the sixties and Plaza Satélite is not a psychiatric ward* and being an overweight lesbian is not being crazy. Being addicted to anything was ridiculous, as ridiculous as not having any friends and not having any money and what are you going to do are you going to get high in the kitchen with your grandmother and pass out and be taken to the hospital and are you going to make your mother cry? With what, did you score some weed or some x with the milkman who drove a pick up to your house with fresh milk for your chocolate and your sweet rolls? As ridiculous as that and not being in California. One had to have patience to get fucked up. Your time will come, as will everyone else’s.

(*Footnote: at least not officially) 

And my time did come and I did get my pills and I did get to brag about being hammered on a school day and oh lord I can’t breathe, I need out of this classroom and out of this subway train and out of this body because my brain is going to disconnect any time soon and I don’t want to be around when it happens. I didn’t even call for this, life did. ‘Cause one of the things nobody tells you at school and at physical education and biology –certainly not at math- is that you don’t need any extra stimuli because life is horrible as it comes. There’s no running away from it as is, it will run up to you and beat the shit out of you and make your nose bleed whether you’re in your bed or atop of the Eiffel tower and specially atop of the Eiffel tower because everything is so small and the air is so cold and it’s impossible to grasp a perspective of reality because what the fuck are you doing on top of the Eiffel tower?


And now that I have it ‘cause I wanted it and I yearned for it and it is awesome,  ‑and go tell your friends that you’re prescribed and driving yourself insane and it’s inevitable and out of your control- now that I have it and I belong on those movies I watched and all the cool kids are taking antidepressants, now I have it for myself and only myself because fuck if I want people to tell me “hang in there, it’s ok, you’ll get out of it” but what is out and what is in anyway? Out of where? Towards what? Below, under or above it?


Maybe what you wanted in the first place was to share something terrible with yourself, a bonding experience with yourself so you could pity yourself and help yourself or do nothing about yourself but just go through it and say darling, remember when this horrible thing happened to us? We could finally be left alone in silence and we could finally fall in love with each other, me and me, because we could finally think about us because there was no one else out there.  


Or maybe cool kids take antidepressants.




A lie.

If you have to state something about yourself, then it’s probably a lie. This is the golden rule. Should your actions need justifications and your feelings interpretations, it is most likely because you need someone else to understand them, relate to them, and agree with them. This is called fear.


When you speak of love, you make it disappear. A feeling that generates so darkly, so intimately and so personally -someplace in your body you cannot even pinpoint for certain- is prone to disappear once you force it to become something. It does not know how to survive on the outside. There is always a pervading danger in giving a name to the discomfort that lurks inside your stomach, or the embracing comfort of a warm abstraction. What means love for you does not mean love for me. Name God’s name and you will murder him by making him exist. Everything that is brought upon the earth is bound to die. Some things are better off living on their own realms. Leave them untouched, as they are.


A woman once asked me never to tell her I loved her, so I did. Honestly, naïvely, fiercely, I did. As soon as I uttered the words, the code, the historical repetition of sounds, it was out of my body; I had made it come out of my body where it was safe and contained into a world where words fly like radio waves and are confused, diffused, suffused with the rest of invisible signs. And then I couldn’t find it anywhere.


If you have to state something about anything, then it’s probably a lie.




Heart of the Apocalypse: a Comparison Between Apocalypse Now and Heart of Darkness.

Surroundings are of no consequence when everything is enveloped in darkness.

 A pervading feeling of despondence is what binds both Apocalypse Now and Heart of Darkness together; when despair is blinding the eyes and hearts of men, the setting does little to improve or deter this circumstance.  Whether we find ourselves seeking for ivory at the Congo or at war with the Vietnamese, the human condition is exposed like an animal’s carcass on the burning sun. It’s natural, it’s violent, it’s a horrible thing to witness, but it’s there. And you dare not turn your back on it.


While mirror images of each other, Apocalypse seems to reflect itself as if through a magnifying lens more than through a mirror. It is Conrad’s most obscure nightmares, turned into powerful visual symbols and analogies. Thus, the flies that symbolized death on the book become helicopters that spread it across the land, and Kurtz’s impaled heads turn into a raging, much more exaggerated representation of hell on earth, of which he is both Satan -ruler and commander of armies of bereaved souls-, and God –father creator and decider of fates-. This very dichotomy within is what drives him insane, an inner turmoil of having lost his moral compass and, at the same time, an utter delight and dark pleasure in having found an inland kingdom of his own. “He could have gone for general, but he went for himself instead”, says Captain Willard, perfectly summarizing the ideology of a man ravishingly sick with power, perfectly manifest in both works.

 The movie is a downwards spiral into decadence from which there is no escape or relief, whereas in the book death is the ultimate escape from damnation on earth. The horror ends in “The Horror!” so to speak. However, the film makes it seem as if there is no running away from eternal violence. It begins with it and ends with it, like a circle that never fully closes, or a line that extends itself onto infinity. Kurtz is slaughtered parallel to a symbolic “golden calf”: the false idol has fallen, but has fallen into an even thicker, blacker obscurity. Granted, the events on the book affect the characters lives irreversibly, but one must inevitably wonder if what Captain Willard survives into can be called life at all.  Marlowe may still find some sort of peace of mind on the ocean, and solace in a companion’s attentive ears. Willard is lost.


The doors of hell have been opened, and they only lead inwards.


The book is born from experience, the movie from obsession. They are both impeccable works of perfectionist geniuses; Conrad’s skillful penning of English is absolutely equivalent to Ford Coppola’s passionate narrative. However, there is a point in which said passion becomes a devouring flame, which consumes the viewer as it almost consumed the filmmaker, and its heat transcends the screen. One holds the book in ecstatic awe, at times almost forgetful of the terrible events therein depicted, whereas at times the film twists the awe into an overwhelming force of shock, which may overpower the mastery of the cinematographic execution. It is outstanding as it is outrageous.


Beauty in form is the book’s power, whereas sheer power is the beauty of the film.








Sobre Andar.

Caminando no pasa el tiempo, uno va pasando junto con él.

Al andar se hace magia instantánea. Uno tiene la impresión de ir inventando el paisaje conforme avanza. Después de todo, si no lo viera uno con sus propios ojos, ¿cómo saber que más allá de la vista hay árboles, tierra y gente y no un limbo blanco abismal?

Caminar te da esa elusiva sensación de tener control absoluto de tus decisiones, el famoso libre albedrío, que le dicen. La izquierda es izquierda y la derecha es derecha cuando así lo dispones, y puedes cambiarlas de lugar en cualquier momento. Uno puede seguir y detenerse a capricho, y la meta se coloca a gusto del caminante. Es una acción que no puede dejarse inconclusa, pues termina cuando termina, pero paradójicamente nunca termina del todo, salvo impedimentos de fuerza mayor -como la muerte, por ejemplo-.

Uno de los muchos de los beneficios de andar a pie, -además de reducir la obesidad y la depresión- es la claridad mental. La sucesión aleatoria de imagenes y estímulos debe ser tan abrumadora para el cerebro que le permite ignorarlos y concentrarse en una sola cosa. Pareciera ser que el ritmo constante y enajenante de mover los pies en automático es un ejercicio más mental que físico.  Al entablar una rutina momentánea se le da vuelo a la hilacha mental, pues no debe uno preocuparse por decidir cuál será la siguiente moción corporal -como cuando se baila, o se coquetea- y el entorno se torna tan novedoso en tan poco tiempo que no puede uno ocuparse en predecirlo. Es recomendable realizar dicho ejercicio en completa soledad, pues de lo contrario la incomodidad del silencio obliga a uno a exponer sus ideas, y al estar expuestas se prestan a toda clase de corrupciones. Un problema que da vueltas herméticamente en la cabeza parece resolverse solo, pues se es más honesto con uno mismo cuando no se mezclan los predicamentos propios con el juicio de los demás.

Quizás el ocio y los pensamientos de todo tipo que lo acompañan alcanzaron a los contemporáneos de Adán cuando dejaron de moverse por el mundo para volverse sedentarios. Andando, el mundo entero era su hogar y sus acompañantes sus vecinos. Al establecerse, amarraron también sus ideas las cuales acostumbraban fluir a rienda suelta junto con el devenir cotidiano, y presumo que fue el aburrimiento el que los hizo desarrollar sistemas sociales y una necesidad de que les perteneciera un entorno a cual solían más bien pertenecer. Se inventó la jerarquización, nació la propiedad privada y un pasito pa’lante se volvió diez pasitos pa’atrás. Henos aquí.

Hay lugares a donde sólo se llega caminando. Cuando uno se va a la chingada se va necesariamente a pie. Nunca he sabido de alguien que se vaya al carajo en avión, ni que a alguien se le vayan las cabras al monte en bicicleta. Jesucristo anduvo sobre el agua para después enloquecer y confundir a católicos y arrianos, y la Virgen María parece observar con deleitante fruición el paisaje de miles de pies ensangrentados en su nombre; una guerra santa individual a micro escala, donde los pecados hacen las veces de infieles, y los pies de uno son las armas de expiación. Quizás alguien ya entró al paraíso en patineta, pero por el momento no tenemos cómo comprobarlo.

Se dice que caminar bajo el agua fue el detonante de la evolución de las especies. Los animales que podían realizar tal proeza fueron explorando el mundo fuera del océano y conquistaron la superficie terrestre. Resulta curioso pensar que el simple hecho de mover los pies en lugar de nadar o arrastrarse vino siendo los albores primitivísimos del imperialismo, los primeros pasos de un bebé que -sin imaginarlo las demás criaturas que por manejar más lento en la carretera de la adaptación fueron relegándose atrás- habría de comerse al mundo entero.

Apocalypse Please.

The nuns at school told me not to read the apocalypse. So, evidently, I read it. I didn’t understand that it was a very clever tool of social manipulation for repentance and conversion at the time it was written…what I understood was that seven angels were going to play seven trumpets that were going to unleash a monster with eyes on its horns that was going to swallow us whole. The nuns had won the battle of traumatizing me for life, but I won the war ‘cause everyone knows I’m going to hell either way, but that’s not the point.

At age 7, I spent every single one of my nights with one eye open, terrified of the end of the world. Every single noise would wake me up in terror: car horns, tamales oaxaqueños, el carrito de los camotes… I really mean everything. I had to run to the nearest window and stare at the sky because I thought loud airplanes were the sound of imminent meteorites about to crash against us. This must have been a nightmare not for me, but for my mom who had to be constantly woken up by my whining and would tell me “For the love of Christ, go to sleep…no one knows when it’s going to happen, but I’m sure as hell it’s not happening right now”. 

I must have spent all my childhood fearing death and the apocalypse and ALL my fear too, because now that I’ve grown, not only do I find it natural, I embrace it gladly. I ignore the process of suddenly becoming obsessed with something you used to be so utterly panicked about, but it has happened to me over the years. Now that I’m older (I won’t say how much older, ‘cause there have been many many moons ever since I was a kid), I know that death is not only an inevitable process, but not being able to escape from it has now become a subject of my fascination. And it means no matter what we do, we all “deserve” it somehow. It takes the good, the bad and the ugly altogether; the pope, the child, the noble, the baby… 

…it just doesn’t give a fuck.

But we already know this, we already know our time will come and so will everyone else’s and that’s not the point of the argument. My point exactly is there are several reasons why I’ve gone from afraid to almost excited for it. It’s hard to explain properly, but I’ll do my best.

One of the things I believe on a personal level is that time is absolutely relative. If you lived to be 90, your memories would not be sequential, but a collection of garbled moments, and if you didn’t know your age it would be practically impossible to calculate how much time you’ve lived. Our memories can’t hold chronological account of linear time. Everything we will come to live from this moment on is already in the past because the present -what is happening RIGHT NOW- doesn’t even exist. This paragraph you just read, SNAP, there, in the past. So why bother in living 200 years if our concept of time won’t give a fuck whether we’ve been remembering things for 200 years or 20? 

You can’t even plan for tomorrow anyway because our minds and surroundings are as fleeting and whimsical as air and everything changes in a split second. The future is never how you think it’s gonna be.

On a more general level, I know this is going to bring me some problems with the conservative type, but I no longer believe human kind is worth saving. We thought that accidentally being on top of the food chain (just because we had opposable thumbs and both our eyes were in front of our heads) bought us the divine right to claim that everything was ours. We really believed that ridiculous secular tattle-tale that God created us into his image, and thus everything that could not speak nonsense like we do was inferior and should serve us, so we ended up destroying a world that was never ours in the first place in the name of progress for mankind. Animals became our slaves and nature became our ornament. Nothing but our individual selves has had a right to live in this absolutist, selfish frame of mind. So we are never happy because we always want more, we always covet the neighbor and we sever, maim and impair everything and everyone that stands in this quest for happiness that has become a wild goose chase instead of a search. We enslave elephants, burn forests to the ground and rape children in the name of the Lord, entertainment or whatever dark purposes we cheat ourselves into believing it serves. How can I believe in an “inherent goodness of the soul” when humanity proves me otherwise every single day? Mankind is evil, and whoever wants to prove me wrong is welcome to go fuck themselves ’cause look at all the shit we’ve done.

I do not believe in the concept of guilt as catholic guilt has tried to embed in us in order to manipulate us into giving them money. I don’t even believe on guilt on an individual level because there are different point of views and what might be wrong for me might be perfectly acceptable for you, and I hate it when people blame people, or blame themselves too much because they think they have to. Being so, I can’t say I think the end of the world should be a punishment for all of humanity’s mistakes, because mistakes is just what they are, fruit of stupidity and ignorance. We never learnt to live at peace with ourselves and with others, and we never learnt to let go of our personal demons in order to take care of our surroundings. Fine, we fucked it up. But seeing the apocalypse as merely a natural event and not God’s personal vendetta against us, our deaths are only but side casualties which may give the world a change to recover itself from all the damages we’ve inflicted upon it accidentally. Extinction of mankind is not the purpose, heck, it’s not even the gist of the matter, there is a much bigger picture here. We fear it and try to escape from it because we give ourselves way too much importance, forgetting that the world was here FOREVER AGO, and waaay before we accidentally spurted out of the ocean and “evolved”. The world must endure its processes, like it did way back when ice ages came and went. The Sahara desert used to be an ocean. The world does this to itself, it reboots and respawns because it’s an ever-changing being on itself. We are but mere hosts, fleas on the back of an ancient dog who needs to shake them off from time to time because it’s what it’s always done. Thus, fear of the end of the world comes from stupidly believing the world is here to serve us, when in reality, we were supposed to be respectful guests because THE WORLD WAS HERE BEFORE US. 

I don’t properly think we deserve to die, I just think we will and have to. I made my peace with it not only because there’s nothing we can do to help it, but because I think I’ve lived a very happy life. I’ve been privileged so far and blessed (by whomever) with good health, beloved friends and family and great music. I’ve lived heaven on earth and known more than enough about hell. I have absolutely no problem with sitting on a field and watching Melancholia wipe us out of the face of the earth because all in all I’ve lived the life I wanted to live, and whether I get to be 40, 60 or 90, the only thing that will remain are my memories and my peace of mind. We should embrace our fears instead of shunning them because when the time comes, you will have spent more time dreading it than enjoying it. So just be ready to chill, eat good food, play some Bach and hold your mother because you’re not going to want to waste your time panicking when there’s nothing left to do.

Serious relationships in your post-childhood years (yes, they’re as bad as they sound)

Some time ago, I dated a girl whom I loved very, very much. She broke up with me, long story short, claiming that I was still a kid who couldn’t be held responsible of her own diapers, much less of someone else’s life. I threw an epic tantrum and denied the whole thing, thus proving her right. And boy, how right she was. And how hot, but that’s besides the point.

I used to think I was this invincible adult who could make certain promises, like, “I’mma build you a cabin in the woods” or “I’mma get a job in Europe and it’s gonna pay me so well I’m gonna be able to support an entire household at age 25”. Not only are these promises idiotic, they’ve helped me better understand why it’s a child’s game to try to have these so called “serious relationships” when you’re lacking many, many things. Allow me to expand on the subject:

Now I realize and vehemently believe that people are nearly impossible to relate with because we tend to take things way too seriously at an age and position in which we still think it’s serious business to meddle on people’s Facebook to see if they’ve been summing up their entire love life on statuses or taking distasteful pictures of themselves in the mirror.  My point is this: there is no way in hell we’re going to be able to have serious relationships with anyone else if we do not have these two things: independence -both financial and sentimental- and peace of mind. It sounds easy, and it sounds like things we think we have, but as long as we’re still living either under our parents’ roof or inside our parents’ wallets, there is no way we’re going to achieve this independence and realize we are able to take care of ourselves without anyone else. And until we take care of ourselves, how are we going to take care of anyone else, then? Therein lies the dilemma.

Until that moment of true growth comes, we, all of us, are just playing children’s games, trying to imitate whatever we see on either TV or some adult relationships. We want to have Monica and Chandler relationships, and we play house with our partners like a full sized dollhouse, but we’re more like Romeo and Juliet….fell in lust at age 13, hung out with each other for, like, a fucking week, and ended up killing themselves like deign Beliebers would, not realizing it’s such bad taste to kill yourself over your elementary school crush. We try to imitate adult relationships, and fail miserably because, hell, we’re just horny kids that think they can promise eternal love to each other just because we saw it on Titanic once.

The concept of eternal love is incredibly worn out, too. I only know like, 3 relationships in total that have been able to maintain each other afloat, and boy, do I salute them like the love soldiers they are. But that’s the exception that proves the rule right. In reality, I don’t think relationships can last forever, but I think you need several things before being able to try to coexist with another complicated, unpredictable human being and not go apeshit after the first week:

– You need to have traveled by yourself at least once, completely alone and at least for a month, because how else are you going to know how you function outside your comfort zone and whether you can administer your time and money effectively? Also, don’t be an idealist, yes, relationships need time and money, otherwise it can get incredibly boring to be stuck on a friday night watching TV and eating popcorn ‘cause you can’t buy yourself and your girl one lousy beer.

– You need to have had shitloads of sex so you’re absolutely sure you’re not confusing love with lust and stupidly walking into a relationship in which after 3 months you realize you haven’t even told each other about your childhoods and favorite movies (but you’re already engaged with this person ‘cause WOO OMG YOU’RE GETTING LAID)

– You need to have had a dog. Or a cat. I’m serious. Preferably a dog, ‘cause those guys are so incredibly dependent it’s gonna teach you a valuable lesson on what it’s like to share a close life with someone else. Besides, you know nothing about life until a living thing needs to have its primal needs covered in order to survive and no one but you can ensure that.

– You need to be able to sit with yourself, alone, in motherfucking silence and not only feel tranquil, but complete.

– You need to not depend on your parents. For absolutely anything. You can’t always ask your mother for the money to buy your girlfriend dollies and knick-knacks. But it goes beyond that…I believe that independence, and I mean really owning your time, money and space, is the only key to peace of mind.

Have all of those? Congratulations, you can successfully try to embark on this sea of unknown perils that is sharing a true serious relationship with another complex, ever-changing individual, such as yourself. In my humble opinion, all other games of trying to be Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon pre 2009 are going to fail miserably, just like Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon did after 2009. I’m not saying you’re not going to fall genuinely in love before you’re 35 and have a fabulous Sex-and-the-City-esque job, or that you’re necessarily going to break up with a person (just kidding, you always will, trust me) but I’m saying that maybe, just maybe you can stop planning to have babies, a dog named Sparky and a tandem bicycle when you’re 20 and still have probably around 40 years of your life to meet other people. “Serious” relationships should just be called relationships and they shouldn’t have any pressure to succeed. We should just enjoy the time we have together with people without naming things, and without still thinking of eternity like our antiquate western culture has forced us to do. “Eternity” is everywhere, when not even our immediate future is certain. We are but flimsy humans and we change our minds quicker than we change our socks. We should just have a bunch of friends, a bunch of sex and a lot less commitment. Or yeah, if you want to have a nice monogamous relationship just be very aware of the fact that, yes, it’s going to end and it’s going to hurt a lot more if you’ve already sworn each other to be the loves of each other’s lives. When the time comes and we’re absolutely certain of our certainties, we can share a life with someone else and not just random events. Because before that, what exactly are we aiming for?

Titanic revisited. (Spoiler alert: the ship still sinks)

Today (and every day for the past 4 months ’cause I’ve been waiting for this for that long) I thought it was a great idea to go to the movie theater and revisit my ex favorite movie of all times. I still do not know what possessed me to spend money -and I mean, actual money, not monopoly money or canadian dollars- on this endeavor, but I still went with my hopes up and my 3D glasses at hand. And large popcorn. And a soda. And some nachos.
I was also very very high. 

When I first watched this movie I was at the tender age of 10. I thought this was the pinnacle of cinematography. This movie was awesomer than Christmas, the redhead Spice Girl and a Happy Meal put together on a unicorn. But looking backwards (and forward at the screen in front of me an hour ago when I spent my remaining youth watching this movie) maybe it wasn’t quite the great movie I’d watched as a child.

When I watched Avatar I was like “Dude, how can Avatar be so bad? I mean, how can this be the same guy that made TITANIC, the greatest movie like, e-ver?” But yes, it IS the same guy, and it is JUST as bad. If you have great childhood memories of this movie, keep them that way. Your childhood was awesome, no need to spoil it with this.

These are some of the things you realize when you watch this movie past the age of 10:

1.-Kate Winslet is not just a chubby chick with slightly chola eyebrows, she is insanely gorgeous. I loved this movie because of her and her alone. I used to lie to myself and be like “oh, Leo, he’s so dreamy, normal girls my age think this” but I didn’t want him, I wanted to BE him. I wanted to run with her through steamy boiler rooms and teach her how to spit and oh-my-God rest my head onto that nook of hers in the car and smell her…! I do it in real life every chance I get now ’cause it’s my biggest fixation. I also breathe into windows and do the hand thing and you probably do it too. 

2.- The ocean water turned a human body with bones into tiny remains which look like algae puke, it ate through metal, it created an entire biosphere inside a hollow steel shell… and it didn’t even smudge the chalk on Jack’s drawing. Nope, not even when they’re cleaning it with a little Kärcher. A ticket from Wal-Mart in my wallet becomes a blank piece of paper in approximately five minutes.

Also, notice that the drawing he makes looks pretty much like this.

3.- I remembered the music as majestic and epic. It was worthy of the best movie that had even been made. I did not realize it sounds pretty much like when I play with the “vocal” effects on the keyboard at my house. 

4.- Cal was right. This guy just casually bought her fiancée a blue diamond -pretty much the same kind I got last week on my Kinder Surprise- and what does the putita do? Not only does she flirt behind his back, but she has crazy sex in a car, falls in love with this third class guy who looks like a 16 year old girl and dumps the shit out of Cal, making him look like a damn fool. Don’t you doubt it for a second, I’d have had Jack bitchslapped and suckerpunched for the rest of the 738 month remainder of the trip. 

[Also, guys, you’ve known each other for 3 days… I know lesbians move in together during their first date, but you’re willing to die of hypothermia for each other? Really? OK.]

5.- The CGI and now also the 3D are worse than sour milk on your cereal. They used the same 20 extras in the entire film and the rest are computer generated images that sometimes give you the impression you’re playing GTA San Andreas except you just carjacked a huge-ass boat. And the 3D looks like a hologram on a free sticker inside a bag of chips. Might as well have looked like this.

6.- Kathy Bates (also known as that actress that played the fat rich lady on Titanic) plays the same role in all her movies, over, and over and over and over and over again.

7.- The movie is PACKED with clichés. The swedish guys at the bar are called Sven and Olaf (which is a Norwegian name) and they’re not even really swedish in real life. They speak with an american accent so thick I always thought they were italian. The actual italian friend is called Fabrizio and his only line in the film is “pizza, spaghetti, mamma mía, a-get us out of heer!”. 

8.- Rose gets and remembers these super long instructions to go downstairs to save Jack. I would been like:
Guy: “OK, you go down the elevator, make a lef–”
Me: “No, stop it, never gonna make it, lost you at ‘elevator'”.

9.- Rose’s nose must be the only old person’s nose in the world that actually shrunk and got prettier with age, mainly because THOSE TWO ACTRESSES DON’T LOOK REMOTELY LIKE EACH OTHER. Might as well have been Whoopi Goldberg.

10.- This movie does not feature Robert Downey Jr. And that sucks. 

But hey, it’s not all complaints. I admit I made endless fun of everything during the romance part, but boy, did I shut the fuck up when that ship started going under…I spent the remaining 7 hours of the film biting my nails in contemplation and awe ’cause yeah, let’s face it, it’s freakin’ Titanic sinking and it’s pretty damn cool. And also, I was still very high.

But think of this, before we got used to even better visual effects (and to good taste) this movie was incredibly avant-garde. I don’t know a single person that did not leave the movie theater crying and kept on crying for days. Some of them are still crying  -and I hope they’re getting proper psychiatric help-.
I understand now why my mother begged me in all her misery not to make her watch this movie for the 24th time (in a row), but I also understand what was so grand about it, so majestic, so deeply connected to our basic feelings; why it defined my entire generation and why it was praised (by James Cameron’s mom) as one of the best movies in filmmaking history. And the reason is this.