Email to a friend while finally watching Wall-E:
“A big aircraft just fucked up Wall-E’s wasteland, and he was scared and sad-eyed under rubble, and I may have felt terrible for him and started to cry, and now Girl Wall-E just landed. I might not be able to handle this movie while on a hormonal ‘I’m gonna die alone and sexless’ bender.”
I sent the disc back to Netflix and will be replacing it with Despicable Me 2. Minions don’t require romance, only shenanigans. (I promise to try Wall-E again some day.)
But I can’t be the only person who thinks that, in a certain state of mind, Pixar movies could easily lead you down a severe depression rabbit hole. I’m definitely not the only person I know who wanted to jump off a building after watching Up!, and that was when I was in a happy relationship. And Jesus Christ, the first 10 minutes of Finding Nemo, I was on the floor in tears.
Pixar movies should come with Prozac. Best tie-in ever, even better than the free-refills vat of soda my theater offered with the purchase of a Hunger Gamescollectible cup.
Smug Singleton 