A Warped Teenage Mind

Okay. For kicks this is something I wrote a long long time ago. Even back then I was an expert ranter it seems. And quite incoherrent.

Love? Bollocks!

Some times I wonder if love actually is just a fiction. You know the kind of stuff writers like me make up so we can flog off some cheap romance novels and books to the lonely and the desperate and get a beer or two. I mean, who actually buys the concept of love? True love, you know ‘Truly madly deeply’ and all.

The answer that comes to mind almost immediately: the spotty teenager with more pimples on his nose than he will ever have girlfriends in his life time or even a few of his life times. The fat old lady from next door; who reads her novels and weeps buckets. Whether at the story or at the fact that nothing like this ever happens or ever will happen to her, I’m not really so sure.

Or maybe, the middle aged guy, from down the street. You know, desperate to meet ‘the one’ he’s ‘fated’ to be with. Probably because he’s afraid of growing old alone and having no one to share his misery with, plus his mom and dad are probably wondering if he is a faggot or some shit like that.

I want to grow old with you… I mean even the very notion is offensive to my teenage mind. I don’t want to grow old, let alone see my partner lose her looks, get fat, disillusioned and uglier. Or well, just ugly, hopefully. I mean it would be painful enough growing old alone, let alone having being reminded every morning when you look at the person next to you and think…. God damn… is this happening to me too… White hair, wrinkles…hair in weird places; fat? I mean who in their right mind would want a mirror to reflect the constant downward slope growing old engrains upon us?

Oh… and we writers call these people, these little mirrors, lovers. =)

Definitely the romantics if you ask me. You know. The crème de la crème. I mean its so funny when you hear lines that they spew out, like: ‘If you don’t love me… I’ll jus die’. And many do! Jumping off buildings seems to still be very much in fashion. A little messy and inconsiderate to the pedestrians but a hell a lot less painful than sleeping pills I hear.

Then in come the movie makers to cash in on the story. To make a freakin block buster about some poor guy who blew his brains out because his girlfriend was getting nookie from his neighbourhood milk boy.

Love? Can eat?