I Love You, You Freak.

[Content Warning: Mild adult language and situations]

Pause a moment to picture wild-haired, socially-awkward Adam perched on her nightstand, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as sweet, vulnerable Marisa Tomei snoozes, blissfully unaware. Now try not to let your skin crawl completely off your skeleton.

For most of us, this behavior screams “restraining order,” but when Adam drops this creepy confession, Caroline reacts like she’s just been told she looks mighty cute in them jeans.

“You watch me sleep? Why?” she asks sheepishly, piano music tinkling softly in the background.

“You… have a peace. I don’t have peace,” Adam replies, gazing at her like a lovesick serial killer. Well, thank you, Mr. Bundy, for openly admitting you are, in fact, an unzipped nut bag.

One might expect Caroline to respond with pepper spray or a swift kick to the shins, but no. Instead, she looks intrigued—charmed, even. Maybe a little turned on.

Adam goes on, revealing that his dreams are all suffocation and despair, and Caroline is his only source of peace. Tender tears well up in her eyes. She tenderly touches his tender, scarred chest and they immediately, and with tremendous tenderness, make out on the porch swing.

Now, before I go further, let me say this: I like this film. I own a copy of this film. I’ve watched it more than once, and I’ll watch it again. I’d kill for Christian Slater’s hair and overcoat and, given the chance, I’d happily sit for hours watching Marisa Tomei sleep. I wouldn’t even care if she drools. Seriously, Marisa, if you’re reading this—I’m quiet, I won’t touch your stuff, and I’ll let myself out around 3:30 a.m.. Maybe 4:00.

But that’s beside the point.

What really skarks my skivvies is Hollywood’s tradition of making creepy, dysfunctional leading men irresistibly romantic. These dudes pull off antics that would get the rest of us tasered.

Case in point: socially stunted weirdos with minimum-wage jobs, driving beat-up cars, somehow win over stunning women simply by quoting Pablo Neruda, finding Cassiopeia in the stars, and pissing their names in the snow in a quaint Edwardian Script—all set to a John Mayer soundtrack.

In reality, dorks like Will Ferrell or Jack Black would need a Lord of the Rings-level special effects budget to score women like Maggie Gyllenhaal or Kate Winslet. Yet in Hollyworld, no problem. John Cusack could roll up to Rachel McAdams slathered in hog bile, spouting halitosis, and still get her number before sundown. Even Forrest Gump got laid by Robin Wright, for crap’s sake.

I guess this grates on me because I desperately wanted to be one of those quirky, sensitive, outsider guys. I gave it my all—left my hair unkempt for days, mismatched my Chuck Taylors, rode a bike around delivering roses to strangers, held boomboxes aloft outside bedroom windows. I even worked menial jobs where I pretty much kept to myself except when I saw a friendly Golden Retriever that I just seemed to understand on a level where language was unnecessary.

Not once did I attract a leading lady, prom queen, or girl-next-door sweetheart. The closest I came was when Hollywood legend Patricia Neal smiled at me once in JC Penney. I’m pretty sure it was just because she thought I was the person coming to take her to go pee pee.

So here I am: a single, outcast, artsy geek in a musty apartment with a thrift-store wardrobe and a dog who’s a little too friendly. I clearly have no idea what the hell women are looking for.

Anyone wanna buy a book of poetry and a ’79 Chevy Malibu? Cheap.