Event Horizon

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jack. Being a lonely, hopeless romantic, he was very interested in sharing his soul. So Jack went on the internet – E-Bay, as it happened – to see if he could find anybody interesting in an exchange. After a bit of browsing he came across a seller called Jill. “Soul on offer, near-mint condition, minor superficial damage, only 21 years old,” read her advert, so he sent her a quick e-mail to let her know he was interested. Within a matter of moments she replied positively, and they arranged to meet in person and exchange their very beings. They met in a churchyard, beneath the stars and at the stroke of midnight. Jill opened a small briefcase from which the infinite light of her soul shone and dazzled Jack’s eyes. Jack opened a rucksack from which rainbows burst and warm rain fell, and Jill wept. They traded briefcase for rucksack and both left happy. When Jack got home, he turned on some music, poured himself a glass of Chablis and opened the briefcase – but there was nothing inside but a pile of bricks. On questioning E-Bay, they told him the deal was struck outside of PayPal and therefore they could do nothing about it. When he told the police, they did some minor investigation to find that Jill lived a thousand, trillion miles away in a fortress of black steel and totally beyond their, or indeed Jack’s, reach. They laughed in his poor, soulless face. On seeing his vulnerability, they did him for a few made-up parking fines before sending him home to dismally rebuild himself from scratch.

If you’re going to fall in love on the internet – for Christ’s sake, be careful!

Having said that; I might be falling for a girl I know on the internet. Might be falling, mind – not definitely fallen. I’m not *that* stupid. Yet.

I won’t go into all the how’s and why’s of my falling for her – they are all unique and personal reasons which will mean nothing to other people. Especially you. No, for now, just assume her unparalleled perfection. This includes a totally implicit frankness and integrity, the likes of which I have yet to encounter in any girl – so also assume she wouldn’t give me a suitcase full of bricks. Oh, and we’ve met and we got it on. It was a divine, fleeting glimpse at newborn worlds of emotion, natch. Assume transcendental, physical intimacy.

Assumptions out of the way (and don’t fucking argue with them; they’re there so I can get on with the meat of the post), where’s the cunt in this situation? In fact, there are a total of two hundred and twenty cunts, all measuring a mile in length, stacked tit to toe between her and I. The distance between London and Paris. Not quite a thousand, trillion miles, but it’s distance enough that we’d only see each other a couple of weekends a month at most (take that as the final assumption). It’s just the right distance to make sure we *could* see each other, but *never* often. The most cuntworthy distance that can be placed between a couple.

But dandy – even withstanding how ludicrously well we get on, we’re not love-is-a-cunted up yet. We can talk about it, flesh it out and decide logically that we should stop before it’s too late. Being in love with someone you cannot caress three hundred or more days out of every year would be a cunt roughly the size of the equator. Logically, it would make sense to remain single rather than face the equatorial cunt.

Logic saves the day! God bless its merry soul.

Actually, no. Logic’s merry soul is already fucked. It’s all well and good to say – let’s stop. What in buggerdom does that actually mean, though? Stop what? Stop seeing each other? Sure, sure, we can do that. But we’ll still keep talking, and getting on fantastically well, and becoming fonder of each other, and you know? Eventually we just end up back in that same situation that drove us to meeting in the first place.

“Aha!” says Logic, “then why not stop liking each other?”

And with that, you realise that logic has gone doo-the-feck-lally and has ceased to make any sense whatsoever. You cannot put a stop to liking each other. You can’t stop talking to one another. Nobody ever ‘stops’ these things from happening – they just happen. The only recourse is to never speak again, never to touch that place where you found yourself getting on so incredibly well with someone that every single god damned word makes you want to touch them.

Love has an event horizon. A point of no return. You can tell when you’re past it - it’s when logic breaks down. When you disagree with it. Love is, amongst so many other things, an absence and abhorrence of logic. When facts and rules and considered approaches and unemotional methodologies start to go into meltdown, failing for whatever reason, you know you’re on your way into Armageddon and there’s not much to stop it.

It would be brilliant if we could stop incredible connections with people before they get too far and everybody gets cunted over, and just dwell on the pristine knowledge that it *could* get too far, and that there is someone you *could* fall in love with. I would honestly love that. But you know? When you get on with someone that well, does anybody really have the strength, virtues and constant vigilance to make sure you don’t overstep the event horizon?

You do? You lying fucking cunt.

So yes, my original post is set for disaster already. You didn’t expect anything less, did you? In the meantime, let's all get back on the roundabout of love. It's so much fun! Until you get off, dizzy and dependant, throwing up over yourself to the tuts of your logical mind.

Tut, tut, motherfucking tut.