Love-ish Letter for the Millenial Generation

A Vintage Post, retrieved from Scrubbed Innocence

What does it mean? What does it mean? This dopaminergic endorphin tide that swells in my cells. It makes me feel good. It forms my tongue and lips into shapes pronouncing "I Love You." But love is out of style, and so I should say something else. I want to ski on Saturn's rings with you. You are a tuft of baby anteater hair. When we are together, my fingertips emit pink laser beams strong enough to reach the moon. Octopus tentacles. Colorized photographs. Borax. Yes, these are more true, because we know love is not a real thing. It does not exist. It is a name for many things which can all be explained in terms of behavioral psychology, commerce, and biochemistry. These are real. We can take photographs of them and mark itemized transactions into ledger reports and data spreadsheets. We can see and touch them.

I should never say 'I Love You' and am horrified to admit to having done so on many occasions until now. I have been irresponsible, paying little mind to the myriad possible meanings behind this silly utterance, so multipliciously meaningful as to be meaningless. Like an expletive, it could mean anything at any time. And I have used it to express an overwhelming goosey feeling in my stomach, one that, I should acknowledge, if I am going to be completely honest with myself, could be nerves, gas, painful lust, or indigestion approaching the brink of diarrhea (a common likelihood considering the abundance of artificial ingredients and preservatives in our diet). And so it seems, to say 'I Love You' is to say nothing at all.

So, I guess I don't love you, and can't possibly.

But that isn't it either. Perhaps I know too much. I know too much. Yet, I can never know you. Isn't that right?

I JUST WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU EVERY DAY!

Or...there is a feeling I can't understand, and don't need bother explaining, and it makes me want to be nearest you all the time.

Well...most of the time.