This is new. Very new. A new way to type out my big long, pathetic posts. Oh well.
I've currently been indulging in a little series introduced to me by my lovely aunt Almond. Every time I spell the word "aunt" I can't say "ant". I have to say "awnt", and then it results in me spelling "awnt".
It's Dexter. From the series Dexter.
(It's rated NC-17 for mature adults and for mormon teens who don't want to be corrupted.)
I finished the end of season 4, and to be fair to all those who haven't/are seeing it right now, I will say nothing about what I saw except that someone dies and it's not cool.
My mom watched the last episode with me, so she was sitting next to me while the final scene went down. I noticed her looking over at me every once in a while, but I didn't care. What I saw before me on that TV screen was pure horror. It triggered some kind of destroyer of composition within me and I broke down under the pressure like an unsaturated fat breaks down to glycogen.
Whether it be the lack of crying I've done in the past few months, the pathetic-ness of my weak and puny soul, or the legitimacy of my reaction, I started with a few leaking tears, then ended with an Advil PM to stop my hyperventilating.
Between the two, I vaguely remembered the utter rage and hurt I felt when I learned of this mysterious character's death. My hormones were either out of control or my feelings for characters and stories were. I sobbed as though someone real in my life (like my dad or my uncle or something) had died. My mom kept telling me it was just a story, they were just characters.
Two people, my mom and someone else whom I don't recall, both told me that I didn't have to worry because the actress wasn't dead. Well duh. I know that.
There is something people need to know about me, and that is just this: I have this problem, nature, if you will, of being introduced to (or creating) a character and finding a small little latching point where my feelings will attach and follow through to the end. My novel isn't completed, and that is why I am still obsessing and attached to the characters in my novel. It happened with Supernatural as well, where I began to obsess over Dean, Sam, and Cass until I reached the end of Season 6 (since i couldn't go on until season 7 comes to netflix). The sudden attachment peeled away slowly, more towards the back of my mind.
Now Dexter has come into my life, and the writers keep throwing shit at him as he progresses along with his Dark Passenger.
They're real to me. I know it's all fiction, but they are all so easily defined and complex that they're like a normal, exciting person to watch and follow and feel with throughout the entire story. It's my only chance to relax and insert myself, to wish for only a moment that maybe my life could be as exciting as this.
So now I have justified my reaction to Rita's death.