Roughing Up Love


I recently came across an ad on the Internet, bright orange and practically vocal in its absurdity, reading, “22 and STILL single?” I can’t tell you how much the keys on my Macbook suffered after that. I pounded the keyboard with a fierce motivation to prove to myself that this fact did not matter much to me at all. Love? It’s not like the four-letter titled song that Nat King Cole spells it out to be. No, its not like holly jolly Christmas time or blissful springtime walks in the park. It’s more like a summer season overcrowded with tourists and rain clouds, blue sky here and there, rarely a piece of quiet.
Rare. So rare. The word gets me thinking…How can I go back in time and tell this to a former self, doubtless in love and having no regrets in the chances she takes? I can’t—I mean, obviously I can’t go back in time (please, if one of you is hoarding a time machine, you’ve got let me borrow it), but I couldn’t even imagine yelling at the Kerry with hearts in her eyes and love in her pocket. I wouldn’t be able to preach the things I’m rambling on about now—“if love be rough with you, be rough with love.” No; I’d crumble at the sight of such a happy me. I’d give in and fold, my love-sucks-you’ll-never-be-happy-conceding-to-it face cracked like my very own heart. Honestly, if I could go back in time and warn myself of things to come, I would simply tell myself to keep on with the way things are. Don’t pull the plug, Kerry, whatever you do. And then, maybe things would be different.

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