Hell

Being in love is hell. You thought you were suffering when you had nobody to love… just wait ’til there’s someone who you care about. Sure, you’re happy, because someone loves you, someone you love, but… you wonder. It is the fate of mankind to think. It’s our curse: a big bloody brain.
Thinking means wondering. Wondering whether she loves you as much as you love her. Wondering how you are going to make it all work. Wondering. Thinking about fucking logistics. Like: she lives in another damned town, 150 bloody fucking miles away. Driving there, you wonder about the cost of the damned gasoline. You become a mathematician… how often can I afford to see her? And then: am I crazy? How can I think of money, when I need to see her, every possible minute?
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Holy shit. It’s enough to make you drink. But you can’t really enjoy drinking anymore, because you have someone who cares for you, meaning you should take care of yourself, meaning… you should eat healthy stuff, exercise, and not spend so much money on rum. No rum. After all, you don’t, oh Christ, want to disappoint her. On the other hand, she seems to know you better than you know yourself…
Oh, dear. Oh, oh, dear.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to dance in your socks. You need that sliding movement. You need to skid along the floor, like a damned ice skater. That’s the only thing that suits the feeling, the feeling… whooh! Crazy! Everything is possible. You’re a hawk, swooping down at three hundred miles an hour. You’re going to kill, you’re going to conquer. Nothin’ gonna stop you. Except maybe the rum, and 150 miles.
Yep.

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