I don’t need a Romeo, a knight, a DiCaprio

Don’t need someone who won’t let go


On the day Sam got down on his knee, as any gentleman should when proposing, he asked me to become his Juliet and go out with him until the death of our feelings do us part. My cheeks flushed, my heart fluttered. Friends, who had gathered around to watch, snickered immaturely – except for a choice boy who chose to glare instead. A teacher tried to in-conspicuously amble by. All else nonchalantly entered and departed to eavesdrop. The scene had become so comical; I could almost picture myself looking back at this moment two years later, laugh nervously and immediately change the subject. Then, amidst all the blissfully ignorant faces, I decided to say something sweetly sophisticated and profound, like, “Sorry, man. I don’t like you.”

Admittedly, the statement bubbled with acidity, simply frothing with seething hate and looming darkness. Morality, in any rational sense, rejects the situation as an ephemeral proposal. Rather, it seems like a sacred ritual set to suicide of the commonsensical heart. Had I boasted and purged Sam of this morose knowledge, he would simply faint. But frankly, I couldn’t care less about this cliché crud.

The story of Romeo and Juliet, playwright by William Shakespeare, is a dreadfully enchanting read – complete with passion, drama, romance, death and all other elements that make everything overrated. Sadly enough, some hormonal teen adores the senseless production. However, for a love story that’s supposed to signify unity and divine relationships, Romeo and Juliet flaunted more of bloodshed and vehement brawls than most contemporary television shows. With a riot, double suicide and three sadistic murders in between, society turns a blind eye to the actual, true story of how love is supposed to be. Let me rephrase that: society turns a blind eye to the actual, true story of how love isn’t supposed to be, what it’s supposed to be. There is no right way with love.

Love is sweet and fun – never serious, especially at this becoming age. I almost feel sorry for those bumbling ninnies pointlessly worshiping idealistic views. Well-founded and substantially centered, cliché situations have done nothing but set the hopes of a teenage girl only to crush them down in the end. Sometimes the sickening feeling gets so depressing; it feels morbid, masochistic, and maybe even icky. My advice is: “Throw out the book, throw out the lines and – for the daring – throw out Shakespeare. Just be yourself and no one else.”

The last line wasn’t meant to be cliché. Rather, it intended to be encouraging. In any case, you should just admit it. I’m right. You’re wrong. Love sucks.