Wild at Heart

As I lay here wearing a swim suit in my sweaty Brooklyn apartment, I just have to ponder: How is it that an immensely attractive and insanely popular girl such as myself could be at home alone on a Saturday night? Do I have food poisoning or something? Did one of you turdly excuses for "men" stand me up again? Nope. I just decided to stay in, polish off an entire pint of chocolate peanut butter ice cream, and watch Wild at Heart.



I'd like to think of myself as a passionate nihilist. Ironic yes, but I try not to believe in anything as hard as I can. Money, stifling religion, and the big one, Love. I'm sure you've heard the old Carrie Bradshaw song and dance about being single in the city and I'm having such fun experiences but where's the one???!!!! yadayadayada. I mainly just count myself lucky when eye contact is made with a hot stranger on the train. Or binge-style scarf down the times some subpar suitor throws me a sliver of attention in between unimpressive in afterthought "dates". Love, like punk, is dead.

Ah, but punk isn't dead is it? It, like love, has just splintered off into different subgenres. True, some of these splinterscenes are truly heinous. But love it or hate it (wompwomppppp), love and punk are here to stay.

A shining example of said theory is the film Wild at Heart. Two (dare I say?) star-crossed lovers with absolutely nothing to lose but each other, driving towards some unknown idea of sugary happiness that in reality they only know in each others arms. Lula, the girlfriend, exudes qualities I find myself portraying in relationships. Blinded to the world by her total, almost infantile fancy of her dude, she will stand by her man under any tragic circumstance.

There is something comforting in the cinematic idea of this no-holds-barred passion. It makes me feel less alone and less insane. Watch it. Or don't I guess. Your loss.