Art and Life

I saw the "Broke Back..." this weekend with my mother, and my grandmother. Lovely, little flick. I don't know that it lives up to the hipe, but a satifying movie experience nonetheless. After the movie I returned to my parents' abode to finish my laundry. While my clothes were drying I parked myself on the sofa next to my mom where she was watching the "Notebook." I have to admit tears began to stream down my face and I had to continually swallow hard to keep from balling. And I only saw the last 7 minutes of this movie.

Here's my question. Why can I feel such empathy and warmth and even sadness to fictional lovers in movies, but when I see my friggin roommate and his girlfriend all lovey dovey on my couch I wish for their death? I look at them and think they don't deserve love. They deserve to be dropped in the Sahara with no water miles and miles away from any other human. Granted, the Brokeback Cowboys don't leave dirty dishes in my sink. James Gardner never used the last roll of toilet paper and then didn't replace it. Heath Ledger hardly seems like a pendadict pseudo-intellectual.

I guess I'm correct my roommate doesn't deserve love.