I have kids and I can handle boo-boos and potty training and questions about sex and masturbating, grades, friends, hygiene, and early girlfriends.
But what makes me shake in my shoes is if they ever ask me what real love is.
Unless you’re one of my kids, if I’ve told you I love you any time in my life, I probably didn’t know what I was saying. Because past my love for them, I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that. I’m not sure I truly know.
I don’t watch shows like the Bachelor because of the vapid frivolity of the “love” they throw around and that just feels icky. But I did I watch Millionaire Matchmaker when that was on because it reminds me that even millionaires are losers in love.
And just plain losers altogether. Though I’d still like to try to buy love once or twice because I need proof it can exist for me.
I mean, I think I want to love. To really, truly love. As realistic as I am about my love dysfunctions, I still dream of sustainable love.
I wanna love something…anything…like Michael Jackson loved his monkey. Like babies love boobs. Like I love carbs.
I want to believe in love. And I want to be one that would do anything for love. As soon as I figure out what the hell love is.
Because supposedly love conquers all.
Except for things like herpes. And taxes. And bad credit. And death. And horrible bosses. But yeah…love conquers all.
But I’m just not that person. I guess I’m pretty jaded about it all. The next time someone says they love me I’ll probably yell ‘bullshit’. Right now the closest a man will come to warming my heart is warming my vagina.
Plus, I think my first love ever, and the longest love of my life so far is sugar. So.
There may be no hope for me. But every girl should wake up to love.
Oh, and donuts.
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