To say that I'm not a fan of violent movies would be an understatement of such gargantuan proportions that I can't even drum up a worthwhile simile to drive it home. I hate them. Hate. Them. I slept on the floor of my parents' bedroom for three consecutive nights after seeing Scream in middle school. After watching the scene in which John Travolta's character accidentally shoots a guy in the face in the backseat of a car in Pulp Fiction I stormed out of a friend's freshman dorm room and went on a five-mile run. And early last year, when Bevan got invited by some fancy diplomat (I think it was a U.S. Attorney or something) to a special screening of 12 Years a Slave at the Castro Theater, I bolted up and scrambled out of my seat in the middle of the row (nearly knocking said diplomat's soda over in the process) after the film's opening sequence ended in a brutal beating because, as is the case whenever I bear witness to gratuitous violence as entertainment, a wave of nausea poured over my body, a slick sheen of sweat spread across my forehead, my vision darkened at the edges a little and passing out seemed like a foregone conclusion.
The reason I just laid out my viewing history of violent movies in detail is because earlier tonight, after work and after a quick FaceTime catch-up session with Sassy Laura, I met up with Daniel and Tommy at the Chipotle Mexican Grill on California Street to eat hardshell steak tacos and then we made our way to the Embarcadero Center Cinema to join Bevan for the 7:15 showing of Wild Tales, an Argentine-Spanish flick that had been nominated for an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film earlier this year. After a handful of super adorable indie previews the movie started and in the first scene (the film is composed of six standalone shorts that are all united by a common theme of violence which I would have known beforehand had I bothered to read even the film's short Twitter bio) a group of people were brought together on an airplane under false pretenses before the pilot, who harbored bad feelings for all of them, crashed the plane into his parents' backyard, killing everyone in the process. And from there, things only got worse. Before the third short ended (two men were in the process of beating each other to death with tire irons) I grabbed my Jansport, whispered my exit intentions to Bevan and Dan and then hauled my ass home to start the recovery process with long sips of Refreshe Mixed Berry Seltzer and Sister Hazel (using headphones that shut up the world).
A friend of mine often refers to me as "a delicate flower" and certainly not always in a complimentary way, but I think he's right, at least as far as my entertainment preferences are concerned. I am a delicate flower. And I don't care. Bring on Colin Firth and Julia Roberts and Richard Gere and soundtracks featuring songs by The Cranberries and Sixpence None the Richer and stupidly-long kissing scenes set in perfectly manicured Central Park gardens that continue through the credits. I am a motherfucking delicate-ass flower. And you can go fuck yourself, violent movies.
Also, I know that the pic above doesn't have anything to do with the contents of this post but Rick Perry announced that he's running for president this morning and the above photo was circulating on Twitter so I saved it to my phone to send to my friend Billy and it's the only non-screenshot image I have from today so I used it.