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Daydream delusion
Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Launched in life
Like branches in the river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you. You’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?

This poem is from one of my favourite scenes in one of my favourite movies.

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Where is my Mr. Darcy?

Bollywood, Disney, and Jane Austen have given me unrealistic expectations on love and men. It’s a fact. I am still on the lookout for a tall brooding young gentleman of 40 thousand pounds a year in want of a wife who flies in on a magic carpet, turns his nose up at me in our first meeting and says dancing is for savages.

If love was really a three hour rollercoaster ride in which I could sing 5 songs, give long soliloquies to about love and life, listen to my hero liken my eyes to the moon or the sun or the stars and cry out distressfully while my hero fought 10 men with his bare hands then I would definitely pick that over reality. Because in reality, love isn’t over in three hours… In reality, love is just a big fat long agonising wait. 

Why don’t films show the long wait women have to endure while a man makes up his mind to call, why don’t they show the extremely stupid things women do and say? Bridget Jones’s diary was the only movie “brave” enough to expose the fragile desperation that makes women act immaturely and kiss many a frog before one transformed into their true love.

Bollywood is responsible for making me anticipate meeting the guy of my dreams when I board a plane or train. Bollywood is responsible for making me think that a man can be rude and endearing at the same time (in reality they are just plain rude, nothing endearing about arrogance). Bollywood is responsible for making hope a man can have eyes for no one but me.

Disney is responsible for making me think women can make boys into better men. Jasmine changes Aladdin for the better, Pocahontas wooed John into becoming the saviour of her people – so what is stopping women from falling for the ‘bad boys’ and expecting that they will magically transform into men you can proudly present to your parents (be they the Sultan or the chief?)

Jane Austen is responsible for the dreams of millions of women around the world. For making aloof desirable, and arrogance endearing. Her heroes are no pink shirt wearing, skinny jean flaunting, man-bag toting SNAGs. No – Jane Austen’s heros are men of integrity and courage with deeply buried passionate empathy and a wicked yet sweet sense of romance.

Sigh. Who am I kidding? I love the airy fairy dreams Bollywood Disney and Austen have created and sustained over the years. I love the warm gooey melting chocolate feeling the endings give me and I love swooning over the handsome yet sweet and sensitive heroes. Another Bollywood romance? Bring it on!

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