Why Must I Be A Twenty-Something In Love?

I’m not being rhetorical.

Answer me.

And don’t go going all gone clever by offering up a rhetorical answer in return.

Because that’s childish and I can promise you this…I will win in such a battle of witlessness.

I’m too slow for you.

So, pretty much I met a girl about 9 years ago when I was aged 17.

And I fell in love with her.

I fell like Newton’s apple though with less universal consequences and a worse headache.

And the bump on my head (by the way; I’m fully aware of how sickly this analogy currently is) never wavered or diminished throughout the torment and woe of heartbreak and separation, throughout numerous breakups, antagonisms and years apart.

And recently I fell again, for the girl again, and again I am beginning to realise, with horror and joy, that this is the long trip of my life and I am not likely to reach the destination.

Likely because I perpetually feel as though I have arrived.

And arrived well.

I always presumed my bump was bigger.

The difference; I can see her bump too now.

And, apparently, it’s a bump to rival mine.

And the effect of these two bumps entwined, like the utterly bizarre emotions they transmit (I’m talking about entwined headbumps for fuck sake), is that I talk like this.

Dopey I am.

Doomed with a grin and a good cause for both.

Tendency to drool.

Such is life…when as absurdly lucky as it has played out for me.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Sam

P.S. I’m so sorry. I am also fully aware of the decent lack of logic throughout this, though still probably a little less aware than you.

I am so sorry.