Everybody wanting the same mass-marketed crap. Saying it's for their kid, but really it's not. All these fat, middle-aged dumbshits just want something to kill time. Nothing dark and edgy or challenging. Nothing artsy.
Just so long as it's got a happy ending.
A love story strained through somebody's rose-coloured brain.
A drunk driver doesn't care that you've been painting for years and your first gallery show opens next week. How bogus is that? The fifteen-hundred-pound elk, the one standing in the shadows at the edge of the road, ready to jump, it has no idea that our baby is due next week.
The greasy brake lining or the cell phone talker...
The loose lug nuts or drowsy truck driver...
It doesn't matter for crap that you've got three years of sobriety or that you finally look good in a two-piece bathing suit or you've met that perfect someone and you've fallen deeply, wildly, passionately in love. Today, as you pick up your dry cleaning, fax those reports, fold your laundry or wash the dinner dishes, something you'd never expect is already stalking you.
Everyone wants to feel special--attain a special status among their peers--but not too special. Most kids only want to be special the same way their friends are special.
Uplifting? Not really. Intelligent? Extremely.