Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.netWritten By: Dani, the Universe
I seem to have this bad habit of lying awake at night, going over past scenarios in my mind and beating myself up over things I wish I had said instead of the things I DID say. It’s a problem.
So I’ve been prodded time and time again by Flancis, numerous listeners, and acquaintances in general: Have I ever been in love? I am laying this issue to rest. Right. Now. This is getting ridiculous.
Apparently, you lot like to assume that I’ve never been in love. Go back to the episode in which this topic was first addressed and you will notice that I have NEVER stated that I’ve never been in love. I just veer around the subject. This is because I never figured it was any of anyone’s damn business. Now I reveal a lot on this show; I talk about sex, I talk about fetishes, I talk about my exes, I talk about a metric fuckton of personal shit. But love is something that I just didn’t feel like getting into because everyone seems to hold this Hollywoodized definition of love and far be it from me to go shitting on their parade.
Far be it indeed.
I’ve been in love. Just not the kind you’re used to.
If you listen to the last episode, fuck if I know what number that was but just go chronologically in regards to when this article gets posted, I get asked this question YET AGAIN. The question comes in the context of whether or not I’ve felt the “common” symptoms of love. I’ll spare you the 45 minutes of crap and just tell you straight up that I have not. I do not feel butterflies in my lower intestine, I do not lose my appetite, I do not lose sleep and I do not lose the ability to maintain focus throughout my day. This is because I am a rational human being with responsibilities and analytical skills, as well as a properly functioning frontal lobe.
Whenever I ask others to define love, I always get the same nonsensical bullshit: The last thing you think of before you fall asleep, the first thing you think of in the morning. You’d die for them. You live for them. The sound of their voice can make a bad day alright.
None of that makes any sense. At all. I advise you to seek medical attention.
You all make love seem so… vague and irrational.
Love is not irrational. Love actually makes a lot of goddamn sense.
Here’s how I define love:
Do you care for them and their well-being (to a reasonable degree)?
Do you find them attractive?
Can you imagine a potential future with them?
Can you co-exist without toying with the notion of beating them to death after a week?
Can you compromise?
Are you content when it’s just the two of you?
Can you function well in public together?
If you answered yes to the above questions, then that’s love. If you’re still stuck on needing to feel butterflies in your stomach, I’ve got some bad news for you.
I dance around the subject because I don’t like the conventional definition of love but don’t feel like having this goddamn discussion with everyone who asks. Chances are, I’ll get a whole lot of hopeless romantics clinging to their vague, yet somehow comforting, notion of love. I’d have the great pleasure of enduring their metaphors and clich eacute;s, not to mention a whole lot of circular logic, as their forms of argument because they just can’t think of anything substantial to say. And then what? Then it’s like talking to a goddamn brick wall. A brick wall with brick fingers lodged in its brick ears going, “Lalala I can’t hear you.”
Love is not blind; love is much more perceptive than you give it credit for. LUST is blind. Love can tell when someone is upset just by the sound of their voice; lust continues to be convinced that everything’s ok because “omgomgomg he’s talking to meeeee.” Love addresses problems as they arise so they might be dealt with before they escalate and turn into an argument; lust ignores it and hopes it’ll go away because it doesn’t want to lose its high. Love can sit in a room with someone and say nothing because it is comfortable in silence; lust cannot accept silence and must find something to occupy its mind, else it is forced to endure the person in their truest form.
Of course I’ve been in love; I’m not made of stone. My love is not something I give out freely nor is it something I must put on display for the world to see. That is lust. Lust is boastful and insecure. Love is humble.
So please, for the love of all that is decent, stop asking that question because, chances are, I’m not the one you should be asking.
