I want love without all the bullshit,

all the food fights, all the sleepless nights, and that eternal wet spot that follows me around the bed. Ugliness loves beauty the way sin loves purity, but still love’s better than all that, more than just desire for what you don’t have. Love can move mountains; love can stop rivers; love can change the course of history. Pure innocent puppy love is better than all the blow-jobs in the world. I love the initial eye contact, the shy smiles, the late nights, and the long confessions. Time can change all that. Take that pure innocent exhilarating love and whip it up into funny shapes, then bake at four hundred degrees for a year or until hard to the touch. Remove from oven and place on rack. Allow to cool, and then beat it up into grotesque faces, beat it down in a thousand places, beat it with hammers and anvils until you can’t hear yourself think, until it is only a pale reflection of its original glow, a woolly tumorous mass. Kill it systematically until it lies bleeding and gasping for air. Now that it’s fit for public consumption, we can get on with our lives. Now that no one can feel anything anymore, either bad or good, we’re ready for a real relationship, complete with real estate, revenge of the automatons, starring all unknown actors. What happened to the pure innocent love of youth, the pure innocent rebirth at old age? Where did we go wrong as a society that we value the things that kill us and suppress the very things that thrill us? All revolutions go too far. Roll back the clock and pull back the covers. We can never go home again, but maybe we can get halfway.

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