Your time is over. Garden State was eight years ago. That should have been the death knell of your archetype. Portman should have been pushed into that ravine as she screamed so exuberantly into the precipice of Zach Braff's depression. Actually, Mickey Rooney's amazingly racist performance in Breakfast at Tiffany's should have stabbed the trope its spunky godless heart. Regardless, this needs to stop.
You manic pixie dream girls are not appealing. It doesn't seem like your quirky nature will smash through the walls of my tortured, depressed soul. It seems much more likely that you will hum a lively tune while you carve happy sayings into your arm with a broken mug handle while being so wonderfully DIFFERENT and ALIVE.
I don't need you to fix me. There is nothing so broken in me that a cigar, poorly made Mexican fireworks, and a bottle of coffee flavored brandy can't make me forget for a night. There is nothing your offbeat sense of style can coax out of me to make me a better person. I am a grown ass man who recently wrote an angry letter to breakfast cereal. There is no making me a better person.
Your joie de vive is not refreshing. I am not necessarily depressed, but all this seizing the day you do makes me just need to get a sandwich and watch some Friday Night Lights on the couch. You can join me if you like, but I will wager you can't sit still for that long. I am positive you can't shut up for that long, and if you talk over Coach Taylor, I won't be responsible for my actions.
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