The kind you clean up with a mop and bucket, like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it.
Gross. I do not want to talk about that kind of love. Though, that song is my Karaoke song.
Love is the loftiest emotion humans can attain to, other than the comatose state post-Chinese food indulgence. It is the one thing most sought, used, abused, lost, conquered, and toyed with. Love is kind of a slut, is what I’m saying. It gets around.
Part of my anxiety has always been whether or not people like me, and whether or not there was potential for them to love me. As a child, I would gaze wistfully into my father’s eyes and say, “I love you, daddy.”
And he wouldn’t respond.
I would look at him again. “Daddy, I love you,” I’d say, this time with a twinge of…
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