I hate the word “love” by the way. It’s overused, it’s hackneyed, it gets on my nerves whenever I hear it said. Unfortunately, I’ll be using it many times throughout this post. Aaaaand herewego.

So I watched the entire Peach Girl series yesterday. It’s aimed at high-school and younger teenage girls. I, of course, loved it. All 25 episodes and I couldn’t stop.

Here’s the thing. True love is a bunch of bullshit. Loving only one person is, similarly, a bunch of bullshit. Momo loved both Toji and Kairu, and Toji and Kairu both loved Momo. But, the thing is, it would logistically impossible for them to share her.

Love is between two people only because two people is the easiest, strongest, simplest type of relationship. I love you, you love me. We’re in love. It works. It’s easy. When I was younger (high school), I wanted to be in love. I yearned for it. For someone, let’s say, worthy. I always expected that if I truly was in love and knew it, for sure, then it would be reciprocated. Well I was, and, well, it wasn’t. For one, the guy was straight. And it bothered me. Because I’d grown up with the idea that you only love one person ever, and if that person gets away your chance is lost. Forever. And you’d grow up to be a lonely old hag with seventeen cats and no real relationships.

Loving, I’ve come to realize, is not reciprocal by definition. Even if it is, it doesn’t always work out. It doesn’t have to. Love is not “I need you”, it’s “I want to see you happy.” And, of course, part of that requires some form of contact (the seeing). This is because love, like everything else, is selfish. Self-serving. An investment in one’s own happiness (the happier you are, the happier I am). Why does this happen? Similar values, seeing the success of a similar lifestyle or intellectual character. Such things. This also means that love does not require a relationship.

Another thing. Love cannot be forced. To this, you might say, “But of course!” But then imagine, would you love your family if you truly believed this?

I’ve been counting, actually. The people I love. There are four I can say for certain now. Two in high school. One in middle school. One in elementary school.

It has nothing to do with sexual attraction either. Really. Nothing. Out of the eight total, five of them are girls.

I really want to make a list. I love making lists. But I don’t know who will read this.

Everybody wants it. It’s our biological purpose, to reproduce.  But tell me, what happens when it’s over? What’s next? Once the goal has been achieved, what follows?

The same can be said for love. People say true love lasts forever, but that’s only because if it doesn’t last forever then we have to face the end of it. And then it sits there, like an old rag once used to clean the kitchen sink. Old and musty, a memory that can’t be forgotten. 

The weird thing about sex (and love) is the fact that everyone strives to have them, but once they’re over they can never really be forgotten. And do these memories ever remain as shining beacons of light, filling us with hope? No, not at all. They serve as reminders of the mundanity of life. The redundancy. The we-never-truly-move-forward-we-only-repeat-ourselves feeling that sinks to the bottom of your stomach and can never really be digested. And we try to cover that feeling up with hopeful lyrics or creative hobbies but it’s always there.

Life goes on. But, in a sense, we never really do. We just repeat ourselves, in different forms and ways, with more maturity or more efficiency perhaps but our goals don’t ever really change. We want sex. We want love. We want to be powerful. We want the things that make us happy. And life will continue to be a struggle to gain those things. 

Well, guess what I have to say about that? I say shutthefuckup. Life is only mundane if you make it. You, sitting there in front of your computer like a fat blob, complaining about yourself. Get over it. I don’t want to listen to you whine. Yes, life is repetitive, yes, life is a struggle blah blah do you know how much I don’t care?

So yes, I’m saying you should stop mulling over the past. Oh, and stop acting awkward, it doesn’t suit you. It may be cute now, but it won’t be by the time you’re thirty. Learn to fucking live. Here’s a rundown:

There’s no such thing as hope–we all die in the end.

There’s no such thing as regret–in the exact same circumstance you would have done the exact same thing.

There’s no such thing as forgiveness–people change when they change, not when you envision them doing it.

There’s no such thing as love–only good sex and good conversation.

I went on a date today. The guy asked me if I liked the movie after we finished it. I didn’t respond for about half an hour until he asked me again. What does it fucking mean to “like” a movie? Nor do I think it’s necessary or even helpful for the two of us to converse about it as if our conversation might change our respective thoughts on it after already seeing it. Art is art. You don’t talk about art. You can’t gain anything from art other than what you gained the instant you saw it. Art is not a fucking conversation piece. But enough of this tangent. 

What’s weird about sex is that living without sex is a riduculous prospect. And that itself shows one how ridiculous life is. Life is either a playground or a prison, but you better act now or you may lose your chance! Our lives are but a split second in the life of the universe, an insignificant, infinitesimal blip. What does it matter what you do with it?

Get a job, make a lot of money, find someone and have lots of sex before you die. Chop chop, don’t want to make this life shit worse than it has to be. And stop complaining, or I’ll punch you in the face.

I was going to be productive this weekend, I promise. I was going to read books and do my Graph Theory homework and study for my Applied Algebra test (tomorrow). I had this idea of doing a Lee Etude Marathon, where I would go through all 40 Lee Etudes in one sitting.

I was going to do a Popper Marathon too. And a Bach Suites Marathon. But I didn’t.

Instead I spent basically the entire break with a boy. And I’m really glad I did (he’s cute and funny and adorable and smart, among other things). But now I must mentally/emotionally recover, reform my life expectations, reset my routine, whathaveyou. I need one day to say “screw it” to The Rest Of The World and relearn how to stand on my own. What it feels like to be me, and just me.

If I were a psychology major I would tell you that I’ve been alone most of my life. I’d tell you that I saw the pain that people caused one another and I made the decision, the personal decision, not to need anyone ever. Not to want anyone ever. Maybe that suppressed need for someone has just been inside me all along, but I never knew how to express it, how to show it. How to be a normal, social human being.

But, let’s be honest, Black. I don’t bring people closer. I don’t hang out with people, I don’t go to parties, I don’t drink or smoke, I don’t really dance. I dismiss people that aren’t like myself. I put them into little boxes, niches. “People Who Lend Me Things.” “People Who Will Hang Out With Me.” “People I Can Talk To About.” “People Who Can Give Me Advice.”

What is a friend? Is there anyone in this world I actually, truly, care about?

Is this my being selfish? Or is this an inability to find someone I connect with?

Maybe I’m one of those throwaway jigsaw pieces that doesn’t really fit anywhere. No matter how hard I try, I’m going to end up alone.

When I was little, I told my dad that I thought everyone was selfish. Even the people who gave to others did so solely for that feel-good feeling, and people who had relationships with others did so because they wanted something from them. After a bit of debate, he finally agreed with me.

When I was about 14, I read Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. It’s this mammoth novel, a Capitalist Manifesto written between the lines of a 1168-page work of fiction. Her philosophy was that people do what’s best for themselves. That capitalism is based on selfishness. That we do whatever suits us, whatever furthers our goals, with no incentive other than that which brings about our own happiness. And I think, subconsciously, I’ve been living like that my entire life. When I used to look at my future I never saw anyone else with me. Whether rich or poor, happy or sad, it was only just me, alone apart or within a sea of faceless people.

I thought I would nap today. I e-mailed my Graph Theory teacher and he said I could turn in the homework another day, so I thought I would nap instead of going to class. The calm before the storm. The final rest before I do all the work I need to do for tomorrow.

But then I woke up… and I realized how completely unmotivated I am. Perhaps my nap was a little too long, and my body still thinks it’s asleep. But, whatever the case, I haven’t so much as gotten a textbook out. And yet I’m really stressed out about it. Why do I do this to myself? Am I trying to see what I can get away with? How lazy I can be? Am I just in a state of mental Limbo?

I think sometimes I try to do everything and end up getting nothing done. I quest to understand all of the universe in one day and can’t get out of the rabbit hole soon enough. I used to think that I played it safe, but the case is otherwise. I’m a risk-taker with my own emotions, with my time, with my thoughts, with my dreams. And they can harm me just as anything else can.

I need to do this. I need to get my act together. Too much is hanging on my sanity to let it go. People are counting on me to be normal, whatever that means. I need to be stable, I need to be real, I need to be social and open and organized.

I need to stop thinking so fucking much.

I need to get my shit done.