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More than anything, here is what I take away from my experience of Inception: it made me want to pee.

Is this a sign that I’m officially middle-aged beyond all hope? Should I just drop everything and go get my prostate exam right now? Maybe it was the Icee I had before the movie (I’ve sworn off soda, and Icees are frozen sodas, so this one hit me particularly hard with the sugar rush and the gaga). Or maybe it was just that the theater was crowded, the seats were too close together, there was no way I was going to get out of there — and the two and a half hour movie ended with about a half hour’s worth of roaring ocean surf and drenching city rain. After the movie, I bolted out the aisle only to find some fucking New York hippie couple (both of their hairdos packed up inside colorful homemade-looking knit crochet headgear) standing in front of the escalator (the only restrooms in this theater are upstairs) gesturing upwards gracefully like ballet dancers pointing with their wrists in the direction they are about to dance toward. For half a minute, standing, blocking the way, gesturing, pondering, wondrous and strange. Maybe a whole minute. Maybe two.

Oh, come on. It must have been deliberate.

Here is what I think, Christopher Nolan. You did this to me on purpose. You are like a mean big brother, stuck in the back seat with me on a long road trip, after the parents have refused to stop at the third consecutive rest area, and you are tormenting me with stories of waterfalls, babbling brooks, leaky faucets, crashing tsunamis — because you know, you know, you know I’ve got to go. You’ve heard of the brown note, that mythical tone that will make any audience shit its pants. You’re trying to get there, or close to there, any way you can. It’s part of your artistic intent. It’s your motherfucking mission in life, to get me to pee. Right?

Because, actually, yeah. The pee, when I finally took it, was a miracle, a very good pee, one of the highlights of my life to date.  Inception, therefore, is highly recommended.