About life and love

About life and love

                When I was a little younger, I sometimes thought about how some of the married couples I knew had known each other. Because I had this idea in my mind that, in order to get married, you must live some exciting and intense and breathtaking love experience with someone who will indeed make your eyes shine the pure glow of happiness. And then you would get married. Once you have fulfilled all your doubts about whether the person you’re with suits you or not, in life-long terms. Once you are at least sixty percent sure there is nothing else out there you’re not seeing, you’re not letting go. The institution called marriage had, in the (even more) naïve eyes of my childhood and mid-teenage years, an aura of powerful respect, something a little out of the ordinary because it was put into motion only by love. Love would give marriage its kickstart.

                But, hey, it turns out that what I thought it was love is, actually, something else.

                Self-indulgence.

                Yeah, of course. We all want to live one hell of a crazy burning passion, but it turns out we are all going to marry our college boy or girlfriends. I’m in my early twenties now and, as I look around, I see it happening. I mean, not exactly happening, because most of the couples aren’t getting married exactly now, but it’s like I can see then doing it on a not so distant future. Why? Don’t you start with that “she’s-the-love-of-my-life” shit on me. How can you be sure if the one you’re with is, actually, the so called ‘love of your life’ when you barely now what the fuck love is? And as I close my eyes I see those couples happily married. Well, she would think, he’s got a good job, although he’s a little overweight and not that handsome, but, hey, at least I’ve got myself a decent men who won’t cheat on me, who will pay my bills, who won’t complain if I get fat and, tãdã, I can now start not giving a fuck to how I look, I can stop pretending I’m a nice girl and start bitching on every night he goes out with his friends, because I’m getting married. I don’t need to worry with the fact that I might never marry in time to have kids anymore because, yeah, I’m married. Meanwhile, the guy might be thinking something stupid like wow this is a really pretty girl, and she’s an excellent fuck too, and, damn, who the hell am I kidding? I’m ugly as they come, I will never get something better than that. Fuck it, I should marry this girl.

                COME ON.

                How can those shit above be a motivation to such a big step? COME ON.

                Remember I had my eyes closed, right? So, if I keep them closed a little longer, I think I’m able to see even further: our happy couple five, six, seven, maybe ten years after marriage. They’re older, they’re fatter, the guy is bald, the woman doesn’t give a rotten penny about the hair under her arms anymore. And the house is a hellish noisy place with kids playing around while our guy tries to watch tv and our girl is in the kitchen complaining about how an useless fuck he is, ‘cause he is fat as pig drinking that beer and burping loudly in the living room, scratching those long balls and falling asleep with his mouth open. And she is cleaning the place, yelling at the children, and cussing her husband. Meanwhile, the guy is dreaming with some hot super model who has just appeared on a tv commercial and reminded him of when he was younger and had all the ladies at his feet (and even though he hadn’t had all those ladies at the time, his memory tricks him into thinking he had, and it makes the feeling even more painful) and now he is stuck with this fat bitch who only complains loudly in his ears and this even more loud children to whom he needs to give food, care and all that shit. And as the night falls and our happy couple goes to bed, he thinks of the super model once again and gets a raging (and rare) erection, which leads him into trying to touch his lovy dovy’s breast and she pretends to sleep and snore and maybe even kick him a little bit so the pig moves back to his place on bed. Our happy couple ends up hatting each other. Our happy couple ends up trapped into every day obligations which they cannot escape because trying to do so would mean neglecting their children. So you’re forced to live the life you never wanted to and you don’t even have the memories of your youth as consolation.

                It’s a huge step towards hell, ladies and gentlemen.

                Okay, now you’re going to take a big breath, give me a vicious-filled-with-self-confidence-and-disdain grin and say: that only happens if you let it happen.

                Yes, I agree. But, hey, it’s much easier to hate your life if you aspired another one. But maybe you’re lucky. Maybe you can really glue yourself to another person since you’re eighteen and live one happy life despite everything else, despite all the rubbish I’ve just said. Maybe the fucking beatles are right and all you need is love.

                But what I think?

                Love is usually

                And sadly

                Never enough.