We'll talk about something else, like Titanic.

Dec. 12, 1997. I was 15. And I was on a date with my then-high school boyfriend. It was our six-month anniversary. Aw. We went to the movie theater on a double date to see Titanic because, hello Leonardo DiCaprio. I sort of loved him.

I don't remember this occasion because it was my six-month anniversary with a pre-pubescent sophomore, but rather I remember it because I am crazy. You know, I don't really have a good reason. We'll just leave it at crazy. There, I said it. I am crazy.

I freaking loved that movie. Loved it. Down to the last frozen body in the water. Down to the last corny line. Down to the last, "I'll never let go." Down to every second of Celine Dion's heart going on. And on.

And to prove it, I went back to the theater 10 more times. I paid to see that movie 11 times. And I didn't stop. Because when it was released on video, I bought it. And watched it some more.

I was obsessed.

I bought posters and soundtracks. I bought historical books about the ship. When it was discovered that a third-class passenger who died on the ship was buried in my hometown, I wanted to set up a shrine at his grave.

I now own the collector's edition on DVD with an alternate ending. I know. Alternate. I assume the ship still sinks. And last year the Titanic Artifact Exhibit came to my town on my birthday and I almost died. Actual artifacts. Things from the ship. Squee!

I was a woman obsessed again.

I have a point. I think. Titanic was on TV over the weekend. All 194 minutes of its glory. And it was magical. Even watching it for the eleventeen-hundredth time, I found myself cringing at it's cheesiness. And wanting to scream when the ship hit the iceberg, as if this time, just this once, it wouldn't hit. Because I said so.

And I wanted to cry when Jack died. And cry again when they were reunited. And cry again when it was over because, oh my God, favorite movie ever!

And, true story, I can actually speak almost every line. Feel free to unfriend me over this statement.

But I own this, dammit. I am proud of my unnatural obsession. Sort of.

Maybe.

Actually, I'm a little ashamed. Whatever. I bet you pick your nose.