Last week, a tragedy of sorts occurred. I hit a squirrel while I was driving home. His death was senseless, but not the first of its kind.

I was having a perfectly good day, when something snapped. The opening notes to “Someone Like You” came on the radio.

My initial reaction was, ‘I thought we were done with this song. We’ve endured a dance remix and thrown a dozen Grammys at Adele to console her petulant whining.’

My second thought was, ‘Must. Feel. Sad.’  Then I joined the wailing, wishing nothing but the best for some nameless, faceless guy that my hormones are hardwired to cry about.

Dammit. Adele had turned up uninvited, and even though I’ve given up my man- hating habits, I started sobbing uncontrollably. Things got ugly quick.

I flashed back to third grade: A magic carpet ride. Men with perfect hair who dance.

Moonlit montages set to Elton John ballads. Finding “The One” in 90 minutes or less.

Living happily ever after in a sparkly castle. Princes who encourage shoe obsessions.

White horses that never poop. A bachelor pad with a library complete with a sliding ladder from which we can sing to each other.

Well played, Mr. Disney, well played.

There were boogers flying everywhere and mascara bleeding down to my shins when a gray squirrel ran out in front of me.

Bump. He would run no more.

A group of kids walking home from school watched me stop the car and stand over its lifeless body in horror, trying to figure out how I could have done such a thing.

Those kids, and all Americans really, should understand — it’s not my fault.

Someone or something needs to be blamed for my behavior.

Therefore, I propose a ban on all Disney movies. The legislation should include anything that has ever made anyone feel or think — or think about feeling or thinking — for our own safety.

It had to have been something — a miniscule part of the complex whole — from my childhood that resulted in my basketcase disposition as an adult. Adele’s whining must have triggered the ugly part of my subconscious that has not accepted the difference between fantasy and reality.

Also included in the ban would be the collected works of one Nicholas Sparks, the entire John Mayer discography and anything starring anyone named Ryan (films starring either Reynolds or Gosling must be handed over to the government for proper disposal.)

We can no longer poison the minds of our children with this paraphernalia because it directly results in tragedy. Anyone exposed to Disney movies or acoustic guitars or shirtless men as a child may snap when forced to confront their own realities.

It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

 

Contact Life Editor Katie Williams via email at [email protected]