Dopamine. Norepinephrine. Serotonin. Love.
Didn’t I say that I’d come back to it? Romantic Love? The best (brain) chemical overload known to man?
And, so here I am, ready to write about it but wanting nothing really to do with it. Love. I’d rather get a heftier-than-thou serotonin release by licking one of those psychotropic toads.
Seriously. (And, yeah, the poison of the Colorado River Toad can be used as a psychedelic stimulant. No, really. Don’t ask me how I know this…)
Okay, so, I haven’t made much progress from my Love Stories (Part One) post in which I admitted to only writing about unrequited love, romantic tragedy, and abuse. Maybe I’ve even backslid, regressed, fallen deeper into the hole of anti-love than I was before. It’s just that, barring the whole initial gut-wrenching giddy, to make romantic love last (or at least to make a partnership last) takes more than a magic love mushroom and more, even, than hard work. Furthermore, it’s so, so messy and wildly unkempt. That love. And, while not bitter (I’m telling the truth, I really don’t feel bitter), I’m not interested in rejoining the muddy world of love work. I’m just not. And maybe never will be. Is that so bad?