Love is a burning thing
and it makes a firery ring
Yeah? Well, so is ringworm.
Love is a queer thing. I can remember many years ago, in the throes of the first pangs that I asked a friend for a definition of love as a comparitive test. I wish I could find her answers now. The only item I remember is something about being willing to hold your love’s hair back as they tossed their cookies.
Very romantic. But very accurate.
I do not believe in our post-60s notion of romantic love. It’s entirely too selfish. If love is all about personal fulfillment no damned wonder there are so many miserable single people. Love is bollocks. Love doesn’t have to be “see[ing] a stranger across a crowded room.” My God, if that’s what you’re looking for you might as well just pack it in now. Love is not instantaneous. Love does not leap up and smack you with a wet mackerel. If it does, I’ll bet green money it’s infatuation, not love, and will collapse in short order. I think love is always questioning. I think love is an endless titanic row that neither person remembers an hour from now. Love is definitely a battle. Love is not necessarily pleasant. But it does lend you the strength to carry on.
What a shite day. It’s not the hypocrisy and consumerism: there’s nothing wrong with Valentine’s cards, nice dinners and a dozen roses. The problem is only doing that once a year because you feel compelled by societal obligation. It’s a shite day because love has become a shite thing: too complicated with too much riding on it. What ever happened to affection? To contentment?
Gone the way of the dodo, the oath of the marriage vow, and a decent macro-brewed American beer. More’s the pity.
Fuggin’ Danes.