Windsor Wind or Why Not Be?

Ahem, Ophelia, darling. Hamlet is gone cuckoo. Deal or get dealt, so I say.

[There was a girl; a very strange, enchanting girl. And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this she said to me:

"My guy is jaded. Beat that."]

I ask you, wasn't it so perversely masculine and overbearing of Mr William Shakespeare to create such a character as our friend Ophelia here? What better a way to dissipate his own guilt ["Honey, I know I haven't been all here this week, but look, you're my new character in a play!"] playing the Creator of this weak, tormented figure?
Shakespearean-ly enough, our pretty Ophelia loses all: lover, brother, father, dignity and capacity to breathe. Not necessarily in that order. Feminist question: what the hell?
I mean, I know Hamlet is supposed to be the one to make us shake with crying, but Ophelia is sure giving him a run for his money. Seriously now, she is the most tragic character to wiggle its lines into the play. Not only does her pristine universe crumble around her, but she uses the will to live, falling into a pit of despair. And not caring. It's so desolately sad to see a person live only through his or her love for others, and have no appreciation for the independence of solace. She was lonely; she killed herself. She did exactly what the famous soliloquy kind of tells people not to. "A sea of troubles..." Anyone for a swim? Thing is [this post is born out of frustration] it is both tug-on-your-hair frustrating as well as enchantingly fairy-tale-like to dream of such a [leechy] complete love. It is not only prejudicial to make Ophelia kill herself, because it assumes she depended solely on Hamlet, but it is also a degrading supposition as to the nature of a human being. When the going gets tough, Ophelia drowns herself. Women in love have no willpower, no strength, no depth beyond their affections. They, if alone, start brooding and planning their own deaths meticulously. "Honey, I'm home!" is what got Wilma out of her suicidal-mode.

Were I [or any sensible woman] carrying Ophelia's name and part in the story, I would have most sincerely told Hamlet to shove it [after crying a wee bit to get the angry bits out so that I could swear gracefully]. If, Hamlet, your personality is that ebbed that even I can't fix you [Coldplay!...Sorry.] then you're off the charts. Hamlet should be the one killing himself over this [take it literally, don't take it literally, I don't care]: the person I love can't fix my sorrow; I see my old man's ghost; my mother is sharing a bed with my uncle. Okay, I need to recite my soliloquy now and decide whether to live and let die or just kick the bucket and turn my back to the world.
Ophelia should be wasting her time reading Truman Capote and smoking cherry-flavoured cigarettes while someone is painting her toes red to hide the deppression. So to all you Ophelias out there who are contemplating suicide [be it physical or sentimental]: sing a Christmas carol, sing a happy-song. Give out free hugs, buy yourself a tiara [Scratch that last one! Twice!], drink a cup of French Vanilla, listen to Oasis, walk the city alone and see the sun filtered through the bare treetops, smile at children and dodgy dogs, feed the pigeons and just enjoy the brief time you have. Let's not all be the shakespearian dream and kill ourselves before we spend enough time alone to know who we are.

One last thing: raise a glass of champagne to "Be".

And smile on. Nothing's bad enough until you die.

P.S.: And when underwater, SWIM, DAMN IT!
P.P.S.: And don't find the above offensive to your deppresion.
P.P.P.S.: Oh, and Mr Shakespeare, I know you're turning in your grave, but I truly meant no disrespect. I just get mean when I'm tired.