The English Patient

To this day, I can’t think of The English Patient without getting a little angry. I hated that movie with a passion. I hated everything about it and I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t get away from it. I had mistakenly sat in the center seat of the center row in the center of a crowded theater on opening night and all the weeping women around me were wailing at every insipid plot device. I cried too, but for a different reason. I desperately wanted out. I passionately wanted to stand up at my center seat. My back blocking much of the screen. My head tilted toward the ceiling and state loudly and clearly for the entire auditorium of en-wrapped and enraptured weeping women that “I have to get the fuck out of here.” And then turn to my left or my right and yell over and over as I climbed over movie patrons and their companions and coats and refreshments, “Make a hole! Make a hole!” But I stayed. I stayed seated. I stayed quiet. And I’ve regretted that decision every day since then. There are some things you just can’t un-see. The horror… The horror…



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