In my old age have I begun to take for granted the leisure of making out in my own home? Forgotten how my spine would tingle at the sound of footsteps heading towards the basement stairs? Or the blind fumbling in movie theatres?
Apparently I have, because tonight with legs and heads rolling across the screen during the late night screening of "300", I could only look upon the mass of horny Edmontonian teenagers with mild revulsion as they pulled at each other's laps. Despite the nudity, and the sweaty, heaving bodies of Sparta's finest--not even a tingle did I feel. Not a twitch. Only sadness that this is what teens are forced to resort to; and all the while, with an armrest between themselves and their beloved.
Are you there God? It's me, B.
Could you please send Edmonton a boring romantic comedy?
Maybe something by Penny Marshall?