Matters of the Heart.

I hate sentimentality, such needless tears and drama. Because of this, I hate romantic comedies-the illegitimate emotional playing to the audience makes me want to eat my heart out, but for opposite reasons than the movies intend. This, in addition to the painfully obvious plot-lines that one could trace despite having no fingers, lost to frostbite after exposure to said comedies, makes the genre irritating.

But you know what's even more nauseating? The horrid truth that I become an insomniac, that my stomach tosses, that I worry till my eyes hurt because of sentimental, emotional responses to just about every damn thing that happens to me. I am, in a word, a girl. And I type this word, highlight it, and click "italics" with a fair amount of disdain.

I would say I wish I could figure my condition out, but the truth is, when I start poking around, it just gets worse. Instead of logical reasoning, I only find layers upon layers of soft mush that are mushing together in quite an unappetizing manner. So I'd rather not think about it, but then I can't forget it either. It's the mania in me, what can I say...that's why it's best to stay silent. And not snoop in dark corners.

The heart of the matter is that I am beginning to understand why I hate sentimentality so much. I am, apparently, exhibiting a very concerning reaction against what I am. This seems unhealthy and even more pathetic than a romantic comedy.

This all being said, a bit of an explanation is probably merited. There are too many tales of such moments in my history to relate in their entirety, but a handful is all we need...

Caldwell, Idaho, 1992: Anika the Child runs into her room, throws herself upon a flower-print comforter face up, and screams for five piercing seconds, out of unexplained frustration. She lies on her bed in the silence afterwards, thinking about the scream.

Elementary school, 1996: Anika the Prepubescent Adolescent cries in the bathroom stall after overhearing a piece of ridiculous gossip fabricated about her by people she doesn't like. She blames herself for their hate and keeps crying.

High school, 2000: Unrequited love and rejection in no way damper Anika the Tiny Teenager in her devotion to that Pimpled High School Boy and she looks for moments to be around him. She feels a sense of validation that makes her cheeks warm when he says she is cool and a good friend...just not a girlfriend.

College, 2005: Anika the Idealist dates a melancholy musician and believes she can save both of them from himself. She argues with her dad who says it will never work. She only realizes after seven dramatic months the fame that she could have claimed from actually crying a real river.

Current era: Anika the Adult is confused by how un-adult she can behave, how easily she bruises. Such unwarranted sensitivity strikes her as stupid and silly. It makes her want to go to sleep for a long, long time.

But she can't, trust me. Insomia...

It seems in matters of the heart, what matters is the heart. Expressions like this make me wish I was a jellyfish, which has no heart. It also has no brain and no bones. Perfect.