GIRLS AREN'T FUNNY.

It has come to my attention that John Cusack held a boombox over his head at the Peter Gabriel concert, shattering a million teeny 30-something hearts in one fell swoop (and mine). He wasn’t wearing a trench coat.

Unless you missed the 1980s or are Justin Bieber and were born in the ’90s or another Disney star BORN AFTER 2000, let me give you a little refresher.

Cusack was reenacting his legendary scene in Say Anything, a Cameron Crowe movie in which he plays Lloyd Dobbler, an adorable alt geek who falls for Diane Court, played by Ione Skyeyeyeeye, (this is her only movie, probably should’ve let her manager change her name), the queen bee A+++ student with a felon for a father.

Cusack simultaneously made and crushed my dreams. Twice now. It’s not unusual for movie scenes to give us wickedly unrealistic conceptions of love, lust and what it means to be a teenager. Maybe I should’ve grown up in the ’80s.

But there are five movies in particular that do this, that when paired with the reality of the scenario, are quite odd. Didn’t stop me from wishing someone threw bologna on abstract art. And didn’t stop them from informing my perceptions about love. But let’s get real for a minute.

Say Anything

Fantasy: To explain more of the iconic scene that I alluded to above – Cusack is the lovesick Dobbler who will do anything, ANYTHING for this girl. So much so that in the middle of the night, Lloyd holds up a boombox (now it would be an iPad, an iPod or an iPerson), playing “their” song. (I love it when people think songs are theirs. For the record,‘Anything Could Happen’ by Ellie Goulding is MINE, Beats Headphones). This is utterly romantic, and Lloyd follows Ione to her prestigious scholarship in some foreign country where they wear floppy hats and he holds her hand on the plane. (This is my favorite part, as someone who white-knuckles the person sitting next to her on any/all flights. Turbulence. Misery.)

Reality: There is a guy in a trench coat you dated for two months standing outside of your bedroom window blasting music. Sure, it’s your song. But, is he going to pull a Clarissa Sam and crawl up? Are you going to let the whole song play? Is he wearing anything under that trenchcoat?

Sixteen Candles

Fantasy: Arguably the most popular (biased) of the Hughes teen movies, lovelorn Molly Ringwald is obsessed with Jake Ryan, a senior in a sweater vest who has never laid eyes on her until she accidentally tells him she wants to sleep with him. It was a note intended for her friend. Jake is dating the most popular girl in school, and instead decides to ditch his hot blonde Stepford Wife-to-be for a quirky ginger with a fabulous early street-style sense. He comes to pick Ringwald up at her intoxicated/high sister’s wedding to a greasy beau hunk (WHAT DOES THIS MEAN) and they jet off to his mansion where they kiss over a cake, because her family forgot her birthday.

Reality: Gurl, you are going to burn your hair and your dress and that entire house is already in disarray from the night before. Fire hazard. This also transpired in twenty four hours. Total. Found out you wanted him to see your ladybits, asked his friend about you, you discovered you had a foreign exchange student in your house by the name of Long Duck Dong (this would never fly in the 21st century, racism at its finest), and decided to dump his hot girlfriend and take you for a ride in his red convertible. Also, are you over the fact your grandma felt you up?

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When you think of a break-up, what do you think of? Jennifer Aniston standing naked in front of Vince Vaughn in an attempt to get him to move out of their apartment/be jealous? Misery, scorn and de-friending? Endless loops of Taylor Swift? More often than not, you see the same image in movies and TV depicting a break-up – a girl (or a boy, if you’reRobert Pattinson on Jon Stewart lamenting Kristen Stewart) with a pint of ice cream and smeared mascara.

It’s a movie mainstay, like the faux groceries in a bag in TV shows. They can never seem to get this right – like, in every bag brought home from the grocery store, there’s a baguette and a stalk of celery peeking out. It’s similar to the empty purse annoyance, when it’s clear an actress is holding the newest handbag but there is definitely not a tampon nor a wallet in there. I digress – when there’s a break-up, there’s the girl with a pint, tub, gallon, bathtub full of ice cream, crying and wallowing. She might be IN the bathtub with ice cream. Or in her pyjamas, which inevitably are ones with the sex appeal of Peewee Herman.

Swirls of Ben and Jerry’s, indiscriminate swaths of chocolate fudge and whipped cream. How did ice cream come to be the official food of breakups?

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Last week, I committed what some would refer to as a social media snafu. It didn’t really involve finally allowing my Mom to be my Facebook friend (which I did, so that she could properly stalk me, as opposed to solely wondering who Megan Amram was on the Twitter machine or phoning my father), it happened with the “adult” social media platform, LinkedIn.

I love LinkedIn, personally.

Granted, give me something that will link me to other people and ask for my social security number and email and phone number for shipping me size 8 shoes, and I will gladly accept. Others don’t feel as drawn to the platform. It’s like Facebook, but more professional, where you put your resume and a photo without a red solo cup in it and list your previous work experience. I love reading through these, where some friends and acquaintances take to their intern responsibilities what Picasso took to canvas - nothing resembling what they actually did. (Oh really, I know you worked in the mailroom at William Morris but you definitely have a screen credit on Moneyball.)

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