Love is a big fat pain in the ass

And I’m not talking about cosmic love, or love of my friends or self-love or blah blah blah.

I’m talking about the throbbing melting red glowy heart, down-and-dirty oooh baby I WANT you kind, the I really want YOU kind. The i want to spend too much time with you and eat too much rich food with you and stop returning my friends’ phonecalls (don’t let me get away with that) kind of Love. The sort that breeds attachment and distraction and inadvisable fantasies and sexual jealousy (and trips to IKEA and babies if you’re compass points that way). Not the crushy crushy secret sort of love, but the blatant and reciprocal kind, the kind that honours me with truth and mirrors me right back, shows me stark pictures of myself at my most noble and pathetic.

The kind that feeds me and challenges me, supports and delights me, and makes my naked heart more vulnerable and powerful, more terrified and courageous by the moment.

The kind I deserve, goddamn it.

Love is a big fat pain in the ass.

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