Depression (Melancholia, 2011) — It’s her wedding reception and her brother-in-law spent a lot of money to make it really fancy, but she’s depressed because either a meteoroid is going to hit the earth or she’s already bored with her husband. I’ve came across (at times literally) a few depressed women and trust me, they don’t need no cosmic apocalypse to make them sad, just give them a nice pillow and throw away the alarm clock. Kirsten Dunst here has an earnest husband whose obsequious love is too “easy,” so she ends up banging her boss’s intern via golf course cowgirl for a ‘lil drama. Those Mikimoto pearl earrings look like $3,900 a  pop, but money can’t buy you happiness, just a ticket into a 2.5 hr long movie featuring the fallen bride of Spiderman.

Masochism (The Piano Teacher, 2001) — When this lady isn’t teaching Schumann, she sniffs anonymous cum left in porn booths, dry rapes her mom, solicits a face fucking, gets it, barfs from it, wanks off her reluctant younger suitor, gets punched in the face by him, and finally stabs herself in the chest. She also cuts her labia or clitoris with a razor, offering a slow cinematic red tear over the ceramic white tub as Christ’s blood over his very marble effigy. The mystery of what women want can only be asserted by them, so this contributor will bow out gently, only to say she probably won’t mind if I leave the toilet seat up.

Hysteria (Girl, Interrupted, 1999) — Free room and board. Nice activity room with a semi-tuned piano and many board games including ●●●● vs. ●●●●. Maybe even a copy of The Scarlet Letter, Sense and Sensibility, and c. ’93-’95 back issues of Cosmopolitan in the lending library. No rent, no drab office job, no lines in Safeway, no multicultural public transportation commute, no property taxes, no ponderous internet blogging. Borderline personality life is good. But then again, Winona doesn’t like her parents or something (again). This wet t-shirt contest needs to be in an extra-small, with shoulder length hair, and sans the “You Know What? Like…” prelude before some commentary on society.

Oblivion (Nightmare on Elm Street, 1984) — The next time you ladies wanna treat your hangover with a dayquil-xanax-codeine cocktail, make sure you don’t take it in the tub. The view of a woman at this angle is oft accompanied by the smell of fish, which is proof that even a supposed misogynist wants only to please. In a perfect world, she’d have fallen asleep to Oblivion (D.F. Wallace, 2004) and we’d talk about the final story’s scatological irony during brunch (I’d pay) the next day, calm under the balm of our respective secretions with which we had provided the other. In a perfect world, I would not need the glib enterprise of doucheosity to convey my hunger, but a simple bubble bath with you, our raisin-y fingertips finding once foreign holes for them. Can you even hear me?