Love Breaks Your Coccyx

“And eventually, I forced myself out of love.”

These words from Illegible struck a nerve when I read them. I have often wondered if we have any choice whatsoever as to whether we are “in love” or “out of love.” The last person to break my heart, the one to do so the most unbearably, and the one I’m still unquestionably in love with, has always said to me, “We can’t help whom we fall in love with.” If this is indeed true, then it is the primary reason I want to run like hell from anyone who utters the words “I love you.” (There are many secondary reasons.) Stated simply, love is loss of control.

It’s accurate in my case, and I imagine in the situations of many others, that I didn’t go looking for love. I never sat around twiddling my thumbs praying that the phone would ring, or lying awake nights wishing upon a star for some pining lovesick female to waste my paychecks on. I’m not sick and needy like that. To the contrary, every time I have fallen in love, it just happened, coincidently, taking me by surprise. It was not a conscious decision, not an act of my will. Perhaps this is why we call it “falling in love.” We fall in love as some folks slip on the ice and break their coccyx.

To add insult to injury, I’ve always fallen in love with women I wasn’t attracted to at first. I’ll just work with her for two years or so, thinking her strange, and then unexpectedly observe that she has a very fine ass. (Her end is my beginning, so to speak.) I have never been in love with anyone who even remotely resembles myself in terms of our personalities and how we process life on mental, emotional, and spiritual planes. Then once I get to know her I realize, “Hey, there really needs to be something more to this deal than the fact that she has a great ass.” Everything starts going to hell at that point.

So since “falling in love” was not a choice I made, and it didn’t make any rational sense to begin with, how then could I “force myself out of love?” In the case of my most recent heartbreak, I tried a number of times to deny my feelings for DW. I didn’t call her. I didn’t keep in touch with her. I acted like I didn’t care when she walked into a room and the angels sang as beams of light shot out of the ends of her hair in my mind’s eye. I didn’t tell her I loved her anymore, even though she could have rolled the dead skin off her body into little balls and I would have eaten them, I loved her so much. Still, my best efforts at denial, at reasoning with myself about the craziness of the situation, at resolving that things would be different, at ignoring her, at willing myself out of love, were completely fruitless. Even the fact that she hurt me several times, and brutally so, could not deter the stubborn, complicated love I still hold in my heart for her.

My primary fear of love stems from this fact: it wields complete dominance over those taken by it. Besides the heart-ripping, gut-wrenching, blood-sweat-and-tears-draining state of total madness that one experiences when “in love,” the frightening truth exists that you can’t stop it. Once the wheels are set in motion you are simply fucked. There are no brakes. Those elated emotions that you have in the first days of the relationship, those euphoric passions that were not found anywhere else but in the arms of your beloved, will inevitably fade into sad reality, but by then it is too late. The hook is fast and solid in your jaw. You become a boy on a string. You surrender your reason, your emotions, your very life. The totality of your being is now in the hands of the puppet-master. You can’t undo it and inexorably find yourself in a heap, your tender romantic heart shredded to oblivion, and all your lines tangled, your coccyx broken so that everything hurts – so that merely existing hurts like hell. You ask yourself, “How did this happen?” Those around you offer inane answers and simplistic reasoning (the cunts), but there is no satisfactory answer to your question except that you failed to see the ice in your path and take careful steps to avoid it.

Avoidance is the safest, most reliable way to prevent oneself from falling in love. Isolation is the broken heart’s condom. It’s technically unfeasible to fall in love with someone whom you don’t know, whom you don’t spend time with. So if you keep moving like winged Nike, that fat horny bastard Cupid won’t ever have a chance to make a slovenly whimpering pussy out of you. Just don’t spend time with anyone you find attractive or interesting and you’ll make out just fine in life.