Uglycry
Being an actual young widow, I can't do ~those~ sorts of movies. That whole sappy death genre is right out. Those don't make for "good" cries for me. When I am hormonal and just bursting for Alice-in-a-pool-of-tears relief, I have to look elsewhere. I rely heavily on musicals. Cats, Superstar, Nightmare Before Christmas, Sound of Music... That sort of thing. I can still sing if I'm crying. But my go-to standard when I need to feel and belt and feel some more, is Cabaret. Liza is just so heart-rendingly perfect, and Sally Bowles is all of my gauche, American pretense at glamour, all of my selfish inability to cope with reality, all of my running and armoring myself in outrageousness to feel safe from both the outside world and my own feelings. We make the same mistakes over and over, not wholly by accident. ...Maybe this time....
"Happy" is a perfectly decadent outfit we put on when we wake up every afternoon. I cry for our self-imposed barricades and I cry for our stubbornness and I cry for our lost babies and our damn determined life-long performance and our desperate screaming at trains and for our inability to convince *ourselves* and for our genuine spark of "most strange and extraordinary" that is truly, truly there, somewhere, but we just haven't a clue how to nurture it on our own.
