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Sunday, October 7, 2012

I'm Jack's Broken Heart

Let's take it down a notch, beautiful people, because it's about to get a little Barry White in here.
I want to talk about love.

What is love?

No, we're not having a "Night at the Roxbury" moment here. We're not having a chick flick "You had me at hello" moment either. I want to talk about the real stuff; the stuff that Hollywood could write but doesn't because they don't think anyone would shell out $9.50 on Friday Night Date Night to see it.
Well, Hollywood can suck it.
I prefer $5 Tuesdays anyway.

To me, love is a completely physical thing. You feel it. It hurts (thanks, Brandon Boyd). It is the one thing that ardently reminds you of the presence of every single one of your organs. Anatomy books say that your heart is the size of your fist, but when in love, that fist can be a cherry-flavored Jell-O mold or be clutching bloody brass knuckles. You walk leading with your stomach, completely helpless in your own directionality. Your spleen shuts down and you feel like shit even though you follow the "apple a day" saying religiously. Your lungs deflate.
Love lives in the throat. It burns your esophagus after you've cried for hours on end; when you've coughed it raw and you sound like a veteran smoker. Your epiglottis turns to concrete and you choke violently on the things you should have said/should have never said. Your uvula swells. You can't bring yourself to speak to anyone for days.
Love gives you lead feet. You fall out of bed and immediately hit the floor, and you can't move because Love broke your ankles and convinced you that your square of carpet is a safe haven (it's also magnificently absorbent). Love makes you walk past the same memory five times in a row until your toes and heels are blistered. Love bruises your knees.

But Love isn't always painful.

Love traces the moles on your back when it thinks you're asleep. It laughs appreciatively at your offensive humor and patiently explains how a transmission works. It places your heart back in your chest after it's fallen to the ground, brushing off the dust and polishing the scratches. It sets its own battered feet in your lap, coughs up its own concrete.
Love will pick you up and wrap you in big arms and hold you without prying with "What's wrong?"'s or "Let's talk about it"'s. Love stiff-arms the unimportant things. It'll even sit on the opposite end of the sofa if you don't feel like being touched right now. It tenderly grazes your wrist and gently squeezes your hand and says a whole awful lot without making a sound.

Sometimes you feel love aggressively, and sometimes it's just nice to know it's nearby.

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