Disillusionment, Love Potions, and that Obsession with the Unattainable

Musings/Rants, Relationships and Shit

So I just read this from a NY Times article:

“A few months ago, I read several articles touting the health benefits of writing in a deeply personal way. Studies had shown that writing introspectively on a regular basis can lead to lowered blood pressure, improved liver function and even the accelerated healing of postoperative wounds. The study’s subjects had been told to write for short periods each day about turbulent emotional experiences.”

Interesting. I know from experience that writing in a personal, introspective way can exorcise the darkest of demons, but I didn’t know it has been confirmed by science. That’s encouraging, I guess, because part of me thinks it’s kind of toxic to ponder so deeply and frequently on all the bizarre and bleak truths of life. ANYWAY. That was a passage from the Times’ Modern Love section, which features some of the best essays I have ever read. 1500 words, packed with the optimism of finding love, the relief of losing it, the joys and misery of fighting through it. And those stories – bitter, furious, grateful, and so, so raw – just made me realize that I’d never been in love and never felt anything nearly as beautiful or devastating as they have.

Is that a terrible thing to say? I sure feel a bit guilty writing it down, considering that I’ve had memories and experiences that warranted those feelings. Deserved them. Demanded them, even. But everything is relative, and compared to people who wrote those stories, I really don’t know anything. I thought I did. I thought I knew what love is, how it feels like, and what it could do, but the problem is just you don’t see shit when you’re in the middle of it. It’s hard to know that you’re letting staccato bursts of joy overtake your ability to see how glaringly toxic your relationship really is. And maybe that’s a good thing, because I know that the best is still ahead of me.

Assuming that everyone has some epic love story written into their palm lines ofc. I’m not sure we all do. We speculate on the future with a dizzying mix of dread and excitement. They’re so closely interwoven that it’s hard to define one without mentioning the other. And with them there’s always uncertainty. Am I going to get into Yale? Am I going to make it into the music industry? Am I going to get knocked over by a scooter

Yet when it comes to love, questions don’t start with “am I going to.” Instead you get the 5Ws. What do you look for in a guy/girl? Where do you want to get married at? What kind of person do you see yourself with? Who can make you happy? 

They’re not bad questions, but what right do we have to feel so sure that love is meant for everyone? It’s not even about finding the Harry to your Sally. What if some of us never meet anyone, never fall in love, never know what it feels like to hate someone so fucking much that you’d shove a champagne bottle up your ass and fake your own murder just to ruin his life (yeah, my inner Amy Dunne’s back)? What if we really do die alone?

If that’s the case, do we only have ourselves to blame? Is it because we’re too shallow or too idealistic or too indifferent? It’d be easier if that’s the case because at least we have control over our flaws. I don’t believe it’s all about us. It takes a lot to foster connection and turn spark into fire. Circumstances have to work with you, chance has to work with you, people have to work with you. Not everyone can get all three on his/her side. I certainly can’t. Maybe that’s because I’m awkward as fuck and freak out every time I have to socialize with people.

I’m not saying I’ve given up on pursuing that intoxicating whirlwind romance that everyone should experience at least once per lifetime. I’m going to chase it, and I’m going to believe that it’s still in the cards for me because that’s pretty much all we have. Chasing is living. That briefest moment just before yearning becomes fulfillment is pure euphoria.

But I don’t expect it to happen. I just hope it does.

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Masquerade

Relationships and Shit

I made a Tinder.

Okay, my friend and I made one together as a joke. It’s actually a lot of fun stalking and trolling people. I know that sounds creepy, but it’s not like I’m ever gonna meet any of those people, so I don’t really care. In theory Tinder’s a matchmaking app, but most people just use it to find hookups. I certainly have no desire to hook up with anyone I’ve never even talked to before.

To be honest, I think they concept of online dating is complete bullshit. I hope that doesn’t offend anyone because it’s just my worthless opinion. Talking face to face with strangers, especially people you’re attracted to, is hard as hell. You get nervous, you blush, you stutter, you wish you can just fucking kill yourself. I’m sure we’d all love to do the awkward introductions behind our laptops. But who says love is easy? God, that sounds so cheesy. Oh, well. We’re supposed to fight for love, aren’t we? Open our damn hearts and wait for some asshole to rip them apart, then sew them together and wait for them to be torn apart again. Then if we’re lucky, one of these days someone might decide that this heart looks better stitched together than ripped apart. Then and only then can we stop fighting and stop hurting.

I don’t believe in love at first sight or everlasting love, but I do believe that love should be ugly and real. Real is ugly. Real is embarrassing and painful and raw and transformative. Real is not the person we are on the internet. We always want to look good. That’s just human nature. On the internet, we have the luxury to embellish and edit our images without leaving a trail of suspicion. We can take as long as we want to think of a funny catchphrase or build a compelling alter-ego or construct some deep philosophical argument that we don’t actually believe in. That’s why online dating is so phony. Because you never know if you’re getting the person you think you’re getting.