So am idiot.
I already knew this, but am gathering more evidence daily.
And though I tried very hard to come up with an analogy that did not include the word "dog", as am mad at both the Good and the Bad Dog right now,
(Also: For the record, I do not want to compare myself to a dog literally or figuratively, at all ever, ever)
I can't think of anything else because I have been sobbing too much over sad French waifs, AGAIN.
I have decided I have Pavlovian (Note: this is the other dog part, the first was the title, so now all I have done is write "dog" eleventy times, enhancing my I Am Idiot documentation) response to anything, always, related to Les Miserables.
I certainly have been exposed to the play/movie/score enough that I should be able to keep it together.
I cannot.
Is Pavlovian, although remember, I am not a dog, nor do I want to be one, forget that word right away, please.
But there is an immediate, "Please excuse me while I sob for 2 1/2 hours" reaction to the first second of the music, even though I know full well what is about to happen.
That is the problem.
It is SAD. SAD things happen.
To French people, and I am Francophile.
(Although note: Though I am also bookophile and wordophile and no-word-limitations-ophile, Victor Hugo's book Les Miserables is tough. If Ambien makes you zombie buy stuff on the Internet or eat tubs of butter, try Les Miserables. You're welcome.)
And I am fairly sure, and I checked so I am right, that I have already written at least two treatises on the topic of How I Cry Giant Waves Of Tears At Les Miserables recently.
I insisted the sold-out movie wasn't sold out (Note: It was NOT sold out actually, so good luck movie people, I am never believing you again) so I could sob with Matt as witness, as he had only heard stories.
Nightmare stories, whatever.
AND, I declared, in word form as that is how I roll, that I would NOT go see this movie with my friend K, otherwise known as Friend I See Extremely Sad Movies With And We Cry And Say We Will See A Happy One Next Time But We Do Not.
But what did I do today?
Somebody rang a French Sad Starving Singing People Bell, and I trotted along (In HUMAN form) to see the saddest thing I always cry over, with my friend K, aforementioned friend of chronic sad movie-watching, swearing not to do that again, and then gluttoning ourselves upon piles of Kleenex and makeup wipes.
(Provided by me, she thought she would not cry. I warned her. And came prepared. Am Girl Scout Troop Leader, you know)
Matt was all, "You realize you are going to cry at the movies with K again. Did you warn her?"
And I was all, "It is not my fault if she is not up to speed on the billion blog posts I write about how I cry over this source material in whatever format except long boring book."
And he is all, "Did you pack Kleenex?
And I am all, "Yes, they are packed around my smuggled teas."
And he is all, "Are you late? Do you have your keys?" (He is taking after E on this)
And I am all "Yes, and No."
But I get there, music starts, I break out my various methods of not soaking my clothes in tears, pass some to K, she is thinking she does not need them.
Apparently she forgot who we are and what our routine is, which we have established as a thing now.
We could go see something super funny and cry over thinking of a sad movie we've seen before.
And of course, we cried, I explained my intricate analysis on Who Is Awesome And Who Is Overrated And Why Don't They Show The Revolution Leader More And I Cannot Process The Rain Making Flowers Grow Oh No Here's Gavroche, I Am Toast.
I was not alone.
K wanted the tissues, there was weeping and honking and sobbing all around us.
Yet we acknowledged, afterwards, as we always do, stumbling out into the sunlight blinking tears out of our eyes, that we really need to see something non-tragic next time.
Which we will not do.
At ALL.
