As February the 14th draws ever closer, I thought I’d reflect upon this whole “love” thing. Or at least my experiences of it without going all bunny boiler on your asses. The day when cards and presents are exchanged, secretly from your man of mystery or from your known significant other. Dinners are eaten, champagne is drank, eyes linger longily over the table at one another, drinking in each other’s souls with every glance. Nice lingerie is worn and bedrooms become “boudoirs” (which is French for ‘sulking room’- not very romantic, huh?). This is all terribly cliched, I can’t believe it still goes on. It’s getting like Christmas, everyone forgets it’s a Christian/Pagan (there’s sex and flowers involved, the pagans must be involved somewhere) thing, over commercialized. The orginial love letters were to God, not a woman. And if there were Pagans involved, it will just have been sex. Actually to be honest, these days it has more to do with sex than anything else, afterall, if it was a religous festival, why would Anne Summers and La Senza be marking it as the time of their greatest earnings, alongside that other great “christian” festival, Christmas. But that’s just me.
To me, all it seems to be is a commemoration of misery and lonliness. I would say loves lost, but we all know that’s a lie. If they were loves, they wouldn’t be lost. Although I’m sure if you have a “love” it will be lovely and romantic and all you want it to be. Skype’s the best I’m going to get, sadly. But ha! It’s a Sunday this year- no post and work next day, so fuck you!
I personally feel that “love” is a term used too commonly in this day and age, and it very rarely conveys what it was created for. I for example, when I say I love my cat or I love my best friend, I mean it. I genuinely do. It just doesn’t mean I want to marry either of them, make the eternal vow and share my soul forever and eternity. But I’m not “allowed” to say that about my best mate, on the grounds that he’s male and I am female because “people will talk.” Fuck off. Haven’t these people got anything better in their lives to do?
Love is hard to define. It’s that feeling when your stomach flips, your heart races and you can’t breathe when you see your better half. When nothing can get you down, and you feel safe around them. The lost feeling you get when they’re gone and the addiction you get to having them around. When they can make you happy when nothing else can, you can be totally honest and trust with them when life gets tough. When they are your world and your protection from it’s evils. It is like in the marriage vows, “in sickness in health, for richer for poorer.” Love is for life, not just February the 14th.
I frankly despise people who fall in love after 5 minutes. I should know, I’m one of them. I have made excuses and argued my case for my own stupidity with the best of you. I am a hopeless, desperate romantic. More emphasis on the hopeless because I NEVER learn from my mistakes. I try, I genuinely do. But then I get blinded by the good in people and I fuck up big style and get my heart broken. I detest people who tell people they love you when they only want to “fornicate” with you, and not only that when someone tells you they love you on a form of technology and not your face. You clearly don’t have the balls, therefore you are not worth a moment of my time. Look, if that’s all you want, just say. It’s much easier for all concerned in the long run and it means I won’t try to kill you afterwards. Doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get the answer you want, but it means you won’t have committed my cardinal sins. Sometimes I do believe black widow spiders have the right idea.
I believe “Love” is one of those words that applies to the big word rule. If you don’t understand it or know the meaning of it- leave well alone.
Yes, I have every right to be bitter, before you start. I’ve been heartbroken too many times for an 18 year old. And yes, a real heart break, not a 14 year old version of heartbreak. I tend to have relationships that spiral out of control too quickly and I get a bit dazed. I seem to attract the type that a)gets off on the smell of vulnerability or b) needs a therapist, not a girlfriend. Or sometimes a disasterous mutation of the two. Their technique is to sweep you off your feet, make you feel greatful you’re getting the attention (because you see, I’m “not the prettiest”) until you submit and bear your heart, your soul and other things, just long enough for them to get into your head and get what they want, only to drop you faster than Chanel drops a size 10 model. Others are a bit slower and wear down the very core of your personality until you’re not yourself any more, you’re the person they want you to be.
Maybe it’s a generational thing? My parents, my aunts and uncles and my godparents had met their “one” by the time they were 16 and have at least 25 years married behind them. I am now 18. This depresses me. Maybe I’m just broody or boring as fuck, but that appeals to me greatly. A little bit of security would be nice in my chaotic life. A nice simple life. Don’t worry, I know it’s not going to happen. Has the broken home culture the media has created, changed young people’s ideas on what love is? What it’s meaning is? I think so.
I think people with boring lives must dream over the idea of having a life as stressful as mine. I dream about having a life as boring as there. Job, husband, kids, house. End of. No illnesses, no evil ex’s. Ahhhhh.
But nevermind campers, things are looking up for me. So let me tell you about White Rabbit. White Rabbit has been lighting up my life for a nearly two months now, on off, depending on who’s turn it is to have a nervous breakdown. And it’s incredible. You have no idea how amazing it is to have someone who knows everthing about you, even the really dark stuff, and doesn’t give a fuck. You don’t worry about having to hide it or worry about how you’ll tell them. I know him inside out and he knows me and shit is sooooo cash. We’re not the perfect couple, we have rows. We tell each other when we’ve pissed each other off, he gives me rows when I’m due one, there is mutual respect and honesty with one and other. And he’s a generally handsome and charming chap, laugh out loud. He’s the first man to know the meaning of the word “sorry” and the first one I’ve met who’s not sex obsessed. He’s the first one I tell when things are good and bad, as I am him and he’s just always there. Possibly through a lack of anything else to do. He’s also quite nice looking but don’t tell him that, he’ll just argue with you. It’s funny how you get used to having someone there. And I met him through a psychotic ex and he used to hate me! How things change!
So what can we conclude from this? That this generation has fucked another thing up, good and proper? That I am in love with being in love? Possibly. But only one thing matters- that for once in my sick and twisted existance, I am happy. Have I written this out of jealousy because I’m not being wined and dined and getting roses on Sunday? No. Knock yourselves out. But because I’ve met someone who has changed my outlook on humanity, who understands me and who cannot stand cliches as much as me.
So happy valentines day, zombies. Revel in your once a year cliches and eat chocolates on me. xD.
