12 March 2014


I've been in love before.
On purpose even. 
Feels a lot like the enveloping warmth of a well-lit fire on a cold damp night. Tastes like that sweet first bite of a fresh-baked gooey chocolate chip cookie. Intoxicates faster than all the booze in God's country. As surprising as stepping in dog shit.


No thanks.

Love is for fools, as they say. A nonsensical attachment of emotion coupled with the forging of bonds surrounded by a complete disregard for the logicality of reason and inability to make well-thought decisions. Love is an intangible irrationality with power capable of reducing a grown woman to tears. (Often repeatedly; shout out to the 2nd Floor Ladies Room where I am Belle of the Bawl.) The mingling forces of adoration, obsession, lustful longing, and sheer stupidity competing for brain space with bat-shit insanity.

Love is for chumps.

 At least the monkey on my back is adorable.

Teenage love was the best, remember that? Remember when you felt a stirring, an actual gosh-darn STIRRING, in your goodies that guided your actions and you didn't know why? Remember how it felt worth EVERYTHING to drop all the rules, symbolically running through the field of this new-found affliction? REMEMBER when you used capital letters? Remember discovering how blowjobs end? Remember when your cheeks got red? Remember writing bad poetry? Remember how you were going to be in love FOREVER?
Remember being really excited to do things you didn't quite understand, only to find yourself a lot more disappointed than you were comfortable admitting?

Maybe teenage love was prophetic, in its ability to unknowingly define married love.

We could talk about married love OR YOU COULD TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT.
Funny thing, garbage. It didn't smell that bad at first. There were just a few crappy pieces of emptiness here and there, nothing unbearable. Maybe a few empty wine bottles atop of the shrimp tails left over from the Honeymoon Stage. It festers and boils a little; life adds a few diapers. Kids grow up, more crap gets piled on top. Old poetry gets thrown away. Layers upon layers of  new garbage starts pushing down on the old garbage below until the pressure and stench starts pushing back. 
Competing with each other to mask the issue while ignoring the rot is what I call the "Fabreze Period" of married love.
Eventually someone gets dumped.

That metaphor lasted longer than some marriages.

LOVE love, though. 
It snuck up out of nowhere and slapped you with a metric fuckton of oblivion. Made your soul feel complete. The kind of love that made love understand that love had no idea how to love. The True love. The One love. The LOVE. The kind that could never drag me away from you. There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do..

I really need to stop drinking and writing. Or limit the 80's playlist. 

LOVE love, though. 
It's a bright and sunny day. Or crisp and dead of night, if that's your thing. (It's definitely mine; shout out to the third-shift cleaning lady of the second floor ladies room who calls me "Belle.") Either way, there you are, minding your very own business, when SUDDENLY, out of no where mind you, your heart rears back and kicks you in the balls. 
It assaults all of your senses; from touch to taste to feel and feel and feel. 
Your heart can hear, your mind can see. 
It's real godamn poetry.
LOVE love.

The drug of the feeling is more addictive than the feeling of any drug.

Love is the ultimate pyramid scam.
Being fed into over and over; built on nothing more than promises, empty promises. Every participant brings in another; spreading the infectious optimism what is nothing more than a scheme to help support the tumbling mountain of love. One investor of the heart falls over the side, their place in the Love Matrix snatched up by another waiting heart before the first rebound date; left abandoned and bankrupt by the side of the emotional road to recovery.
Writing fucking godamn poetry.

Love is an Evergreen Forest.
The ridge of the Appalachians churning to meet the valleys without giving pause to the obstacles daring to impose upon it. A river of emotions winding a path of its own destination; narrowly escaping the mountainous confines of stoic conformity. Love is a blinding burst of feeling, erupting from behind a wall that took centuries to create. It is the single dying branch of a small sapling pine, hanging limply in the shaded side of the valley on the ridge of Bald Eagle; desperately clinging to the slightest hint of warmth as it yearns to grow into a feeling that can stand.
This metaphor really hits home.

Love is like a poem.
Four lines; makes no sense.
Doesn't even rhyme.
Only chumps fall in love.

I love Love.