Being of unsound mind, at the urging of gracielou, against my better judgment and self-interest, and at the risk of peace of mind, body and soul, life and limb, and alienating the whole of my dwindling fan base here on OS, I’d like to offer some observations about the third-most explosive subject on OS – third after Palestine and The Secret – that subject being love.
As ought to be obvious from my previous posts, and if not, you will soon enough discover, I am no expert on the subject of love. But then I’m not an expert on any of the other subjects I routinely, unthinkingly, and callously pontificate about here on OS. A fool rushes in, donchaknow?
Gracielou suggested I share my brilliant observations because of a comment I made on Greg Corell’s post where he lamented the possibility that his horse-loving daughter (14) might one day be swept off her feet by some cowboy of dubious intent and meager means. I told him he sounded a like an Old Testament dad, by which I meant of that time and place before our romantic age and the advent of eHarmony when a “good match” was arranged by the parents of four-year-olds and sealed with a sacred contract – and a carefully measured dowry.
We moderns, being so much more civilized and highly-evolved, prefer to leave such trivial matters to the whims of Fate – a chance meeting at a bar, a blind-date arranged by a so-called friend, or the carrion – no I don’t mean clarion – call of sugardaddy.com. I’ve played the game of love in lust and out of, and I haven’t learned much at all even though I'm far, far older than Greg’s daughter. So what have I learned?
First that love is no game for amateurs, but we all are and always will be.
Second – ladies, under penalty of death do not read the rest of this paragraph– fellahs, pay special attention to her mother; no matter what your beloved says about how much she despises her mother, that’s who you will very likely be living with in twenty years or so. Also, fellahs, pay special attention to her father; if she worships him, you’re screwed – you will never match up; if she despises him, you will be a stand-in for all that unresolved conflict.
Does that sound like you don’t have much chance one way or another? See, you’re getting smarter already.
I now continue with the non-gender-specific portion of this rant. I warn you, though, I am about to expose some very dark corners of my soul, and you will not like them. On the other hand, if someone had told you this before you let yourself fall (note the operative verb) in love, you might have been a bit more careful. Maybe.
The problem with love is that it's preceded by romance, during which most of the time one person (or more) has something they don't like about themselves – or which others have suggested many times before is not at all likable – which gets carefully hidden from view to be revealed only when it's too late to do anything about it without going through a near-death experience – and who in their right mind would welcome that?
The problem with love is that it's preceded by romance, during which most of the time one person (or more) has something they don't like about themselves – or which others have suggested many times before is not at all likable – which gets carefully hidden from view to be revealed only when it's too late to do anything about it without going through a near-death experience – and who in their right mind would welcome that?
The problem with love is that it is (as someone described it) the intersection of two people's neuroses – two persons looking to fill someone else’s hole with their own hole and getting distracted by all those other sweet, sucking holes that pull you down into a honey-drenched false-heaven, a cloying and clawing maelstrom that lifts you to the stars while drowning you – or else enveloping you in a cocoon, a premature burial that would make Edgar Allen Poe or Stephen King run scared shitless for the exits. But you don’t run away; you welcome it and beg for more.
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The problem with love is that it’s two people straining to see the dark side of the moon, looking to find that which is missing from their own planet, and then discovering too late that it was missing from their own planet because they didn't like it very much in the first place – and now they hate it – but now they're expected to live with it FOREVER – or at least for the rest of their miserable lives – whichever comes first – which turns out to be only until they just can't take this shit anymore – and life is short, and aren't I entitled to a little joy and happiness in my life? – except that most of the time by this time kids are involved, so you stick it out for the kids – only the kids just end up being miserable because you're miserable – so what IS the fucking point? – but you continue on with the dregs of mere existence until you're so fucking out of your mind you will do anything, anything – suffer any indignation, endure any pain, pay any lawyer – anything to make it stop so that you can dig around in the refuse of all those wasted years for something, anything, that reminds you of who you use to be but no longer are and probably never will be again.
The problem with love is that even though you know all this, you’ll turn right around and do it again. Why?
Because the problem with love is that nothing else even comes close.
