I flipped immediately to the back of the paper I got back last night in Film & Lit class. The assignment was a “personal definition of a romantic comedy.” I loved her handwritten note on the last page, and I’m pretty sure I translated it accurately:

“This is the first paper so far (I’m still at the top of the pile) that I actually enjoyed - and it makes sense, too.”

Good stuff. Here’s a preview:

When I was eight years old, my dad asked me if I wanted to come with him and my sister to see a movie. I remember it almost as if it happened yesterday (as opposed to two decades ago): we were standing in the taken-over-for-a-fair-gymnasium of the Catholic school I attended in White Oak, the sun was streaming in through the windows set high up in the wall, and my little sister was holding his hand. I asked what the title was, and my dad’s mistake was in telling me. If there are any two words which, in a three word title, can deter an eight-year old boy from venturing to the movies, those two words are almost certainly “princess” and “bride” (or any combination thereof). Little did I know, but not seeing a film about a princess bride, on the big screen, would be one of my life-long regrets, especially once I actually saw The Princess Bride and fell in love with the film about pirates and giants and swordsmen and rodents-of-unusual-size and fire-swamps and, yes, even a little romance thrown into the mix.

Read below the break for the rest:

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