Love is the drug from hell

Anita the Presumptuous demanded that I open up another can of worms, quite possibly the largest and most destructive can in both the known and unknown universe. Don't ask me how I know about the unknown; ancient French secret. If I did open up said can, and I'm stupidly leaning towards doing so because I've got zip lined up comme d'habitude, they wouldn't be those those cute, fuzzy annelids, but a mutated, flesh-eating variety, 'cause nothing can chew you up into a sticky paste and spit you out like the worthless sludge of crap that you are comme l'amour.

How's that for romantic?

Before we go on any further, I'd like to state, for the record, though I understand the reasons why we name ourselves the way we do -- easier for the monolithic police state to maintain full dossiers upon its subjects and other fine points of tinfoil hattery -- but c'mon; Aethelred the Unready? Louis the Spider? Charles the Bald? Ivar the Boneless? That's just groovy stuff, so much better than, say, oh, Randal Graves. I could be Randal the Long-Winded or Randal the Annoying.

"Randal the Stupid."

Hmm.

Before we go on any further, partie deux, why is everyone a fucking moran today? Not you, dear readers, the fucking idiotic fuckers in the real world. Gonna be a long ass day.

Can asses be long?

"Are you done?"

Yes, now fuck off.

So, the statement, by some, of the hour: l'amour n'existe pas.

Millions of theories have been written on this by people far more intelligent, experienced and edumacated than I; billions of poems, most of them bad and most of those mine, so which illegal substances is the 10,374,442,683rd person ever to exist -- or wherever I am on the list -- possibly smoking when he thinks he can add a fresh take on the subject? Well, I couldn't no matter how hard I tried, but through the ancient Art of Bullshit, with a little help from The Google, I've managed to craft a post without too much work -- while duping at least two or three of you to read this far, ha ha ha! -- thereby freeing up more brain energy to ponder the eternal questions surrounding this beautiful hell and if and when I come up with any answers to placate my fragile sanity, quietly keeping them to myself to save another embarrassment of foot-in-mouth-itis because though I could pen -- well, type -- thousands upon thousands of scattered, nonsensical words on this eternal torment, it's better that I don't.

For me, it comes down to this: through various methods, emotional or otherwise, and their assorted corollaries both tangible and abstract as we explore reality and dream, each of us invents some archetype, our ideal, and then we hope someone out there in the ether will match most of the characteristics of said ideal. That's the easy part. Now go find someone and hope they reciprocate. Bonne chance, sucker.

Of course, there's an inherent danger that one isn't in love with anyone at all, but with love itself and that we merely project that sentiment onto a flesh and blood human, adjusting the toxicity of the lies we tell ourselves up and down depending on new discoveries and/or fluctuations in our ideal and/or just how much this living, breathing human does indeed match due to their originally encountered composition and, later on, new discoveries and/or fluctuations in said human.

Man, that sounds too fucking scientific. Now I'm even more depressed.

"Is that a pheromone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Ha. Nice try, brain. And on top of that, I don't even know what the point of this post was. The world's longest prologue to an open thread? At least it's an overcast, cold autumn day. That makes me a little bit happier. So does not being clear on anything. Where's the fun in having everything sacred and profane spelled out, because if there's one thing love is, it's fun, right?

Hello?